The Heart of The Wolf
by WhiteMoon56
Summary: Solas doesn't understand her; this quiet, scarred elf who fell from the Fade with his mark on her hand. And he hates that part of him wants to. (A collection of ficlets surrounding Solas and Lavellan. Updated out of order as the ideas come. Chapter re-arranging into reading order will occur every 5 updates.)
1. Mystery

**A/N:** I spent a long time thinking about what was possibly going through Solas' head while he aided the Inquisition, especially if he grew to love Lavellan, and this is where these stories came from. I'm updating this series out of order, but by the end it should be a novelization of sorts. I hope you enjoy, please R&R! All feedback is appreciated.

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The force of the explosion reached him even from the distance he stood at, carving a hole in the sky that crackled with flashes of power. Green magic surged forth in a wide arc, completely obliterating the Temple of Sacred Ashes. He watched the building crumble as the tear in the sky grew ever wider.

Closing his eyes, he gave the handle of his staff a single, quick squeeze. Necessary casualties. Collateral damage along the curving path he walked. What did a few more lives matter in the grand scheme of things? They were no more significant to him than the birds in the trees.

What mattered was the orb. That was the only thing that held any importance; the reason for the destruction. A thin curl of smoke was rising from the rubble of the Temple, drifting slowly towards the jade gap in the clouds. Before others arrived, he needed to retrieve it. Before there was anyone around with the sense to question him.

Slipping out of the cover of the trees, he shouldered his staff and began weaving his way out of the village, slipping unnoticed around passerby. Soon, he would succeed. Though he had not been powerful enough to open the orb himself, the magister certainly was. The blackness and the greed had darkened the creature's face, peeling his skin tightly over unnaturally elongated limbs. A permanent sneer adorned his face.

He shook lightly falling snow from his shoulders as he continued moving. A fool, that corrupted monster. Desiring the power of a god. What could one such as him possibly hope to understand about godhood? They understood so little. Every one of them was naïve, blank. Disconnected from the Fade, they wandered the world like Tranquil, accepting the hands dealt them without protest. Even the magister fell into this category; no real god need prove himself.

Reaching the edge of the buildings, he noticed a figure approaching him through the swinging leaves and the snow. He waited, letting his eyes drift over the remains of the Temple. Little remained of the structure, save for a few outlying stones and the crackling of the tear in the sky.

The lithe body of another elf came at last into focus, taking a knee at his feet. " _Hahren_ Solas. I bring news." He waited expectantly, gaze turned to the snow. Solas shook his head, waving him off the path and into the forest.

"Stand, please. That is not necessary. What news do you bring?" He gestured vaguely to the ruins to his left. "I am already aware of events resulting from unlocking the orb." The ghost of a smile crossed his lips.

But worry creased lines in his agent's face as he rose. "The… magister. He survived."

Solas' hand stopped, frozen in midair. Impossible. That explosion was uncontained, raw magic. No one could have possibly survived that much power in direct contact. For the first time since awakening, confusion clouded his thoughts, but he did not allow it to show. He dropped his hand, folding his arms over his chest, and regarded the agent. "…Survived." The word tasted like ice.

"Yes, _hahren._ Both Rina and I saw him exit the ruins." An indentation in the pristine snow appeared as the agent toed a circle with his boot. "He took the orb. It is no longer at the Temple."

Solas set his lips into a thin line at the words, turning them over and regarding them from every possible angle. The magister had unlocked the orb. Survived. And it was still currently in his possession. His hand clenched into a fist, unseen beneath the crook of his elbow. He had been so close… and success had been snatched from him, stolen by one unworthy of the power the orb commanded. One corrupted by the blight and his own greed. He could not understand the orb's true purpose; he would use it for his own selfish ends, to gain what he believed he rightly deserved.

Fate truly was a cruel mistress. Solas sighed deeply, uncrossing his arms and worrying a thumb the length of the wolf jawbone around his neck. "There are many considerations to be made. Has anyone else arrived at the Temple?"

A vigorous head shake from the agent. "Not yet."

"Inform me when they arrive, because they will not remain idle long. Bring any information you deem useful with you at that time." He waved the young elf away. "I will remain here. Thank you."

With a brief inclination of his head, the agent vanished, tossing small puffs of snow in his wake as he fled the way he had come. Solas lingered in the trees, reeling slightly from how quickly his plan had become unhinged. How had the magister survived? The implications of his ability to still draw breath were grave and disconcerting.

If he had survived, he possessed power far greater than anticipated. And that made him incomprehensibly dangerous. With the orb in his control, with the power of the Anchor, he would be nigh on unstoppable. Solas once again let his eyes flick up to the hole above the Temple. As he regarded it, it widened, a line of green lightning forking down from the sky to connect with the center of the ruin.

There was also the matter of that creation. Through his connection, he could feel the effects the tear had on the realm it led to. The Fade had grown unstable. The sprits were panicking, and the tear seemed in no hurry to stop spreading. It already bled over a large portion of the visible sky, swallowing the clouds and the cerulean in a swathe of violent jade and grey.

If this was allowed to continue, there wouldn't be a world left to save. And everything he had worked toward, everything he had sacrificed to rescue the People… it would all be in vain. They would all perish at the hands of a careless magister because he had not been strong enough to unlock his own orb.

Something had to be done. And he would have to be the one to do it. Never would he have imagined he would need to first save this world before allowing it to fall. However, in his current state, he was no match for the magister's newly revealed prowess. The sharp weight of inferiority settled in his chest. Alone, he would not be enough.

The agent returned then, eyes wide beneath his hood. Solas snapped himself from his thoughts at the sound of footsteps. "You return."

His eyes shifted between Solas and the tear, flicking nervously as though beyond his control. "Another survivor, _hahren._ The humans found her."

"And this concerns us why, precisely?" She was likely simply lucky, managing to avoid the worst of the blast. But the agent's face reflected his earlier worry. Solas waited.

Wringing his hands nervously, the agent at last maintained his gaze. "She… fell out of the Fade." He paused, as though allowing that to percolate through the air. "And she has the Anchor on her hand."

Solas inhaled sharply, his only indication of potential distress at the statement. Could _anything_ follow the path he desired it to? There appeared to be no end to the crises unfolding around him. He needed a new plan; this woman added another layer of depth and gravity to the already dark situation. A moment of silence reigned before he organized his thoughts. "Where did they take her?"

"Another small village further down the mountain. She was unconscious."

Likely due to the Anchor; unsurprising. "Offer to help. Insert yourself into their presence. Listen. Observe. I will join you shortly. She will require my aid." Aid in surviving her encounter; aid in freeing her from the grasping tendrils of pain the Anchor would inflict as it attempted to bond with the wrong soul. If the opportunity arose, he could take it from her. One problem solved.

The agent inclined his head briefly before turning on a heel. "She is an elf as well, _hahren._ "

Solas nodded, once. "Is she…?" He fluidly rotated his staff off his back, the handle smooth between his fingers. Pressing the end of it into the snow, he nodded down the path. Human faces twisted in disgust drifted through his mind, refusing to look past the pair of pointed ears. "Then she will need more help than I believed."

Worry clouded his agent's eyes before he shook his head and vanished down the path ahead of him. Solas followed at a slower pace, settling his face into a neutral expression and wrapping his coat closer over his shoulders. Another survivor. The appearance of the Anchor on _her_ , not the magister, soothed the edges of his nerves. Her, at least, he could reach. And if he could not reclaim the Anchor from her… she would be easier to influence.

Rooftops soon came into view, tucked behind a large stone wall that wrapped close to the buildings, protecting from the mountain world. Smoke from several small campfires drifted lazily into the sky, passing through the lightly falling snow in an elaborate waltz. He could hear the faint clink of metal on metal as he drew closer, and the shout of a man giving orders. Through the efficiency, however, hung a veil of sorrow, rage, and loss. The two men at the gates narrowed their eyes as he approached, gazes hesitating on the staff in his hand.

"You, elf. What do you want?" The man spoke as though he had a mouthful of rocks. Solas paused, safely out of range of the sword strapped to his hip.

"I wish to offer my services. It seems you are in need of healers." A sharp cry of pain slithered over the wall to reach them, as though emphasizing his point. He glanced to the sky. "I may also be able to offer knowledge, if any so desire it."

A heavy silence settled as the two man exchanged brief looks. Solas waited, though his patience began to fray. If they refused his help, they were not only blind, but ignorant, as well. More so. Magic was a force of nature, a raw and true part of the world. To fear it was to never understand it.

"Fine." The second guard extended a hand. "But you can't carry that around with you." His fingers wiggled rapidly, eyes on the staff.

With a silent sigh, Solas relinquished his staff to their care. Power remained in his veins, however, and they could not take that. They seemed to at last remember this as he passed between them. Fear danced in the eyes of the first one to speak.

Another soldier greeted him inside the gate, taking his staff from the guard before the door shuddered the air with its forceful seal. Solas regarded this new person. Uninteresting. His attention drifted elsewhere, attempting to locate where they had placed the survivor.

"Who leads you?" He finally broke the silence, returning his gaze to the silent man. "I would speak with them." A vaguely petrified pair of brown eyes darted up to meet his.

"The… Seeker, I suppose. Pentaghast." He lifted a finger and pointed up the hill, where the rooftop of the Chantry was visible. "I'll take you to her."

Solas nodded, inclining his head for the man to lead the way. They passed huddled groups of people, all unarmed, weeping softly into each other. Cries of fear and whispered panic followed them. He spotted his agent tucked in among another group, speaking in low tones. He met Solas' gaze as he passed, offering no recognition beyond a single blink. Solas returned it and continued walking.

Raised voices sifted under the closed doors of the Chantry, muffled by the wood. The soldier paused.

"She won't wake up! We don't have a plan, Varric, and you're not helping the situation."

"She's _dying,_ Seeker! Have you not seen how pale she is? That mark is killing her. She needs a healer, not an interrogation!"

The words slipped into a tense silence. Still, the soldier hesitated. Solas eyed him for a moment before speaking. "I happen to be a healer. It is possible I can offer assistance. If you would…" He gestured to the door.

With a nod, the soldier rapped heavily against the sealed door, the sound echoing from the metal in his glove. "Seeker Cassandra? There is an elf here who wants to talk to you."

A soft noise of disgust reached his ears. "Very well. You may come in."

An impressive creak was freed from the door as the soldier pushed it inward, revealing the dimly lit Chantry swathed in shadows and flickering orange light. A tall woman and a dwarf stood to the right side of the room, near an open door, staring one another down. Solas entered slowly, making no sound as he crossed the room to where they stood. The woman turned from the dwarf, who crossed him arms and shook his head. She gave Solas her full attention, almond-shaped eyes narrowing as she regarded him.

"What was so important?" Her Nevarran accent laced the words as her eyes flicked over his face, searching. Solas simply blinked at her. She had been touched by a spirit, one of Faith. The remnants of the contact clung to her like small stars. He recovered from his observation enough to speak as her eyes narrowed further. Distrust and caution rolled off her in waves.

"I witnessed the explosion. I felt the tear in the Fade. I have journeyed far in the realm, and am led to believe I know what caused it, but it will require study if you wish to understand it. I also consider myself adept in healing magic." The dwarf was also regarding him now, lips pressed in a thin line. One of his feet began tapping out a rhythm against the stone floor. "I simply wish to offer my services, whatever they may be."

In truth, this conversation had gone on too long already. Solas could feel the Anchor, below them, crackling with raw power on the hand of a woman who did not understand it. She _was_ dying; the dwarf had been correct. The Anchor, unstable and bound to the wrong soul, would kill her if he did not arrive in time, and with the loss of the Anchor, everything would fall.

The dwarf took a step forward, tugging on the Seeker's sleeve to bring her attention back to him. "He's who we need." He hissed the sentence between his teeth. "We're not going to know if you let her _die._ "

She straightened, freeing her arm, and shifted all of her weight to her left foot. War raged over her face, clearly weighing the dwarf's words. Eventually, she sighed. "There was… a survivor. She was the only one who survived the destruction. If you wish to help…" She trailed off, gauging his reaction.

Solas nodded. "I will do whatever I can." If she would only take him to her…

With slight reluctance, she turned to the door near them. It opened to a staircase, which led down beneath the earth. "Follow me." She began the descent slowly, her entire body tense with each echoing step. Solas heard the dwarf begin to follow as well, closing the door behind them.

They had locked her away. Of course they had. Bearing the Anchor, they likely believed she was responsible for the breach in the clouds. Being an elf…

He reached the dungeons before he could finish the thought, and the spark of power snapped the world into sharper clarity. She was in a cell on the far end of the room, which the Seeker led him to cautiously, past six guards. The dwarf followed, and eventually the three of them stood before her.

Curled into a ball on the small bed in the cell, she looked small and weak in the faint torchlight. Dark hair emphasized the lack of color in her skin, as did the _vallaslin_ covering her forehead. A Dalish elf; People who only remembered fragments of Elvhenan.

She clung to the world's oldest magic now, her marked hand pressed to her chest. Bolts of jade lightning flickered into the air around her, contorting her face with pain. But her eyes remained closed, and she breathed steadily, if each one was growing shallower as the seconds ticked by.

The Seeker nodded at one of the guards, who silently unlocked the cell. She followed him inside and hovered in the corner, watching his every move. He ignored her easily enough; she become nothing more than a reminder of where he was as he turned his attention to the mark, and the woman attached to it.

Her face contorted again as the Anchor crackled, lines of green light like veins snaking their way over her wrist. Slowly, he pulled her hand away from her chest to hold it in his own, analyzing the mar on her skin. It had bonded to her, body and soul, and she was not strong enough to handle the pain. Silently, he cursed. It was connected to her, permanent. There was no removing it, not in his current weakened state.

Instead, he pressed her hand between his own, letting the green light of Spirit magic slowly curl around the limb. He poured all his power into stopping it, slowing it, preventing the lines of light from reaching any more of her. Like it or not, she had become the key. He could not allow her to die; it would create more problems than it would solve.

No one in the room spoke as he continued healing her, slowing the spread of the pain. When he exhausted his energy, he paused, regarding her condition from where he sat. Her breathing had slowed, returned to a more normal rhythm, and her skin had regained some color.

He dropped her hand, and it hung limply over the edge of the bed, inches from the floor. As he stood, the Anchor sparked again, and this time her eyes opened. The Seeker gasped, but Solas held out a hand. The woman's eyes found his, bright blue sapphires lined with gold. She didn't appear to look at him so much as she looked _through_ him, and her stare was crushing.

She spoke; softly, shakily, broken Elven slid past her lips into the stillness.

" _Andaran atish'an setheran. A'melana dirthaveran. Revas vir anaris."_

Her eyes dropped closed again, the echoing silence heavy and deafening. The Anchor fell silent, glowing softly in the dim room. She did not move again.

Solas stood, frozen, the words ringing in his head. They awoke memories long forgotten, buried. One of his hands began to shake; he forced it to still. The dwarf spoke, words lined with mirth.

"Well, that was… something. At least she's alive." He sounded genuinely pleased by her survival, but the words meant nothing to him. Nor did they mean anything to the Seeker standing in the corner, wide eyes still fixed on the now sleeping woman.

To Solas, they shuddered the walls. _I come in peace to the unwaking realm. I enter time for the promise. There is freedom along the path of years._ His gaze ran over her, this elf who had just delivered Fen'Harel's greeting to the Wolf himself. Whatever she remembered, whatever she knew, she had just become a mystery.

He would have to stay.


	2. Doubt

**A/N:** I've decided to re-organize the chapters every 5 updates, so that they're in some form of order for everyone to read. I also want to say thanks to everyone for their support so far; I'm glad you appear to be enjoying this story!

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The sky had, at last, calmed. The Breach has ceased its bleed across the sky, and the atmosphere at Haven was one of tentative relief. Solas watched the quiet faithful mill around, moving supplies and polishing weapons. He did not understand their incessant faith that the shred in the clouds was the will of their Maker, and that somehow their "Herald" had been sent to save them from it.

These _shemlen_ were blind.

Cassandra, especially, clung to the claim that the Herald was holy like a child desiring their greatest wish. The three advisors held the belief as well, though it was more for a sake of an explanation in the case of some. Solas had yet to form an opinion of them, and he wasn't entirely inclined to hurry. He spent little enough time with them that distance was preferable. Fewer eyes to worry about.

He shifted on his feet, unbothered by the snow coating the ground, and let his eyes flick to the two Sisters standing at the bottom of the staircase. Both paid him little mind; another elf in the background meant nothing. Pressing his advantage of apparent invisibility, he tilted his head and managed to catch snatches of their conversation.

"She agreed to join, I hear. Thank the Maker."

"He has blessed us, indeed. Without her… I don't know where we'd be."

They were discussing the Herald, and he listened closer for all he could learn. _She,_ at least, he needed to know about, for the sake of the Anchor. Anything about the mysterious, quiet elven woman with so much pain in her eyes.

"We'd be watching the Breach expand without any hope at all. …Even if she is an elf."

"And a mage, as well. The Maker works in mysterious ways."

"Or maybe He has a fantastic sense of humor."

"Clera!"

"Yes? I'm stating a fact. For what other reason would He send us an elven mage? He must know the lives they live; some of them do not even believe He exists!"

Solas clasped his hands behind his back; the Sisters were no longer whispering. They had yet to draw a crowd, and silence reigned as the lips of the second speaker set in a thin line. Speaking ill of their Herald like this would earn reprimand from a certain Seeker if they weren't careful. But she was nowhere to be seen. He shook his head as they continued, shocked by their lack of awareness.

"…are you suggesting we can't trust her?"

"I don't know. I just don't think the Maker would send us an elf."

Which he had not, but they were unaware of that information. Solas listened to see if they would say any more, the knowledge of this Clera's distaste hovering in the air like a dark cloud. The second speaker opened her mouth to reply, her brow furrowed, but a soft, accented voice silenced her.

"I never claimed to be holy, Sister." The words came from the tall pine to Solas' right. He was startled, but he maintained his calm stance and lifted his gaze through the branches. A pair of gold-ringed sapphires returned his questioning stare from the lowest branch briefly before snapping to the conversing women. A rustle of fabric and pine needles preceded a soundless drop as the Herald landed gracefully out of the tree and straightened before them. Both women had grown entirely silent at the sight of her.

Solas found himself impressed by her aura of calm; she had not exploded or threatened the rumors. She simply stood there, head tilted slightly, and regarded the women with an eerily still silence. Her dark robes billowed around her ankles in the wind, snowflakes clinging to the hem and the curls of her braid.

The second woman bowed her head, shame coloring her cheeks. "My Lady Herald. Forgive me." She spun on a heel and threw Clera a glare before disappearing. The elf's gem-colored stare turned to her slowly.

"I didn't ask for any of this, Sister. I am sorry if I disappoint you." Her voice was painfully soft, laced with regret. No malice or mocking lined the words. Solas could see her marked hand folded behind her back, the jade lines of power like veins on her palm. She held it delicately, as though it still pained her. Perhaps it did. She had not once complained during the climb to the Temple and the battle against the Pride Demon. He found himself wishing she would, if only to break her mask just a little.

Clera evidently elected not to reply, running her gaze over the Herald and nodding, once. She followed her fellow Sister out of the Herald's line of sight, vanishing around the corner.

The only sound became the faint whining of the wind picking up, pressing the Herald's robes around her ankles, revealing her bare feet churning into the snow. Her gaze, after a moment, rose to meet his. "They don't understand. I am… trying." The words were hollow. She wasn't angry, and she wasn't sad. She simply… was.

He was unsure how to respond, pinned beneath her too-observant stare. "They are afraid." A safe statement, for they were. And not only afraid, he had come to realize; they were terrified.

She turned to regard the Breach in the distance, flickering in the sky. "Afraid… everyone is afraid of what they do not understand." Her hand, a grim reminder of the statement, fell in front of her again, this time pressed to her chest as she lowered her head. "I wish I understood. I wish I remembered what happened; why _I_ survived."

Guilt laced the words. Solas blinked. She held herself responsible. The insults the _shemlen_ had hurled at her, the rumors floating over each thing she did, and she held _herself_ responsible because she was marked, because she had survived. He recognized guilt when he saw it. The last faces he had seen it written on, it was far too late for them. Her, however… for some inexplicable reason her pain over this was _wrong_. She did not need any more of it adding to what she already clearly carried.

He wasn't sure why he cared.

Lacing his fingers together, he leaned on the stone railing in front of him, closer to her. "The Breach gave you the Mark, but that does not mean you created it. _Something_ did. I do not believe it was you."

Sapphires returned to him. "…You don't." It was both a question and not.

"No. Whoever created it did so with malicious intent, one can assume. Guilt would not be an emotion for one that cruel." Words came almost of their own accord, consoling her. He stopped himself before he said any more, biting off the sentence and waiting.

Her feet shifted. "Even if I don't remember…"

"Even so." He was mildly stunned by his own soothing tone. By the Void, why did easing her worries matter? Solas gave his head a firm shake to clear it. The Herald still watched him, eyes searching but face turned away.

The corner of her lip curled slightly, a smile. The first he had seen from her, even if it wasn't entirely honest. A crack appeared in her mask. "…Thank you, Solas."

He nodded, offering a faint "Of course, Herald." He forced himself to say nothing more. But her face darkened slightly, the smile vanishing like snow in the sun.

"Please… my name is Ilona." She at last turned to face him, that shallow scar on her jawline highlighted by the eerie, faint light the Breach cast, reaching them even here. "If you wouldn't mind using that… it makes me feel more—" she looked briefly at a loss for words before recovering "—real."

Ilona. Her name, at last. A rare name, perhaps formed by her parents with the conjunction of two old Elven words; good, and sacrifice. Yet it raised more questions if that was indeed the case. Did it have meaning? What had they sacrificed and why was it worth it?

…Why did he want to know?

He blinked, the action dragging his thoughts into order, and smiled faintly. "Of course, Ilona." Her name rolled off his tongue to reach her, the word drawing another almost-smile to her lips. She began climbing the stairs, eventually leaning against the stone wall as well. She was correct, entirely. Her name certainly made her more real.

"Do you mind if I sit with you, Solas?" Turning, she pulled herself onto the wall and settled there, feet dangling against the dark stone.

He moved to give her more room, finding himself… tolerating her company. Beyond tolerating. Enjoying it. "Not at all."

A peaceful silence settled between them as they surveyed Haven from varying angles. Since he had her here, now was as good a time as any to learn. "They claim you are the Chosen of Andraste. A blessed hero sent to save us all." He paused, reflecting on her earlier words. "Though you seem to disagree."

She visibly winced, eyes darting to a tree to her left. One of her feet knocked lightly against the wall. "I didn't ask them to. I'm not exactly a hero."

He smiled, he had to. "Doubt is a strong trait to possess. It will keep you safe, keep you uncorrupted by the burdens of power." A fact he knew all too well. Too much power in a single pair of hands and chaos was sure to ensue.

Ilona wrung her hands together, the tendrils of the Mark a stark contrast to her pale skin. A reminder, not three feet away. "Perhaps. Though I don't suppose doubt alone will be enough." She glanced at him quickly out of the corner of her eye.

"Highly unlikely, yes. But still a good place to start." He rested the palms of his hands against the wall, the stone cold but helping him focus. "I've journeyed deep into the Fade, witnessing the dreams of lost civilizations. Power often corrupts, during times of peace and times of war." He regarded her with the calmest stare he could. "And every great war has its heroes. I'm just curious to see what kind you'll be."

She didn't respond immediately, and he waited, watching her weigh the words with a faint wrinkle between her eyebrows. Finally, she spoke, but it was not the response he'd expected. "How powerful are your wards that you have the confidence to sleep in such places?"

He froze. Perhaps many of it was assumptions, but she had still known that access to those dreams required travel, and they were dangerous. "Powerful enough. But then… how did you know?" He looked at her with new eyes.

Her lips pursed together, turning white while she remained silent. Eventually, she sighed, a long, sad sound. "I… spent time in the Fade as well. It offered… escape."

A vague answer, clearly a dance around a sensitive topic. Her hands came together in her lap. Solas knew better than to pry, given the wealth of secrets buried beneath his mask. He nodded, slowly, instead. "I understand."

She almost-smiled again, before slowly returning to meet his gaze. "…I'm sure the events you witnessed were remarkable."

The histories, the dreams, and the stories flashed briefly though his mind at her words. "…They were. In those deep corners of the Fade, I have found memories no other living being has ever seen. I would not trade it for anything."

Ilona glanced up at the sky, her gaze wistful. "Incredible."

In his short time in this world, Solas had yet to meet someone who appreciated what he valued. He had begun to believe all were Tranquil, uncaring of the worlds beyond their own and the lives they contained.

But here was Ilona. And now he didn't know what to think. "Thank you." He seemed to be clearing his thoughts often today, but he did so again, and made a decision. What he had learned… boded well. "…I will stay, then, at least until the Breach has been closed."

Those eyes returned to him. "Was that in doubt?"

A bitter smile tugged the corner of his lip. "I am an apostate mage, an elf, surrounded by Chantry forces, and unlike you, I have no divine mark to protect me." Even though he should. His thoughts flashed back to the Sisters, and the suspicion in the eyes of the faithful. This world… what it had become sent coils of anger through his limbs. "Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution."

Sparks appeared in her eyes, flashes of protective anger. It changed her whole face as she turned to him. "You're here to help, Solas. I won't let them use that against you."

Curiosity won out over the logic to keep silent. "How would you stop them?"

She dropped off the wall and landed next to him, dusting her hands together and sending flakes whirling to the ground. "However I had to."

It was such a calm statement, so soft. Yet it carried promises, and it was then that he saw some of her past. Not only the scars, but deeper, she had endured. And one only endures hardship by growing stronger. His perception of her changed again, seeing the scars as marks of survival. "Thank you."

"Of course, Solas. Thank you for talking with me." Ilona drew her hood over her head and, face softening, turned on a heel, vanishing back down the path behind him and disappearing around a building. She left faint, light footprints in the snow.

When she was gone, Solas turned back to the wall and rested his chin in his palm, using the fingers of his other hand to drum out a pattern on the stone. Though he had at last had a chance to speak to her, he was no closer to understanding Ilona. Layers of secrets and stories hid her, beneath that glorified Herald the people claimed she was.

And she had vowed to protect him, for whatever that was worth. To her, clearly, a great deal. The fire in her eyes spoke as much. He found himself appreciating the offer, even as his truths whispered reminders.

One elf could not protect the Dread Wolf.


	3. Prayers

She looked smaller outside of Haven, legs crossed as she sat by the fire. Flickering lines of light laced her raven hair with gold, dancing and moving as her clear eyes stared at her hand. Solas watched her from where he sat across the flames, trying to discern what she was thinking about. A small furrow appeared between her eyebrows before her gaze moved to the stars. The questions in her eyes made her appear as though she was attempting to solve a very complicated puzzle.

Around them, the others in camp prepared to sleep, disappearing into tents and shuffling faintly before their murmurs to one another faded. Solas paid them little attention; they were nothing but noise to the unidentifiable tug pulling him to speak to her. He restrained himself, content for the moment to watch her think. He felt she was aware of his gaze; she would speak when she was ready.

Their companionable silence, the silence of two lost in thought, stretched on. Solas pressed his fingers together and took the moment of peace to reflect on the events of the past few days. She had awoken, shocked and scared, yet burning with a quiet resolve. She had closed the rift on the way to the Temple with little instruction and a wave of her hand. She had stopped the Breach from spreading, wielding flames and lightning with a careful efficiency.

And now she sat in front of a campfire in the Hinterlands, not ten feet away, looking very small and very thoughtful. All the resolve and determination replaced with a faintly wrinkled forehead and a cloud in her gold-flecked eyes. Solas didn't understand her. And he hated that a part of him wanted to.

The nick in her left ear drew his attention as she tucked a few strands of hair into place; a piece of her taken, missing. A wound that sang with a story, a loss, a reason for the hints of pain in her eyes. Pain that lasted, that clung like a spider web to her slender frame and held her to a point in the world.

Other, smaller things hinted at stories as well. The midnight of her _vallaslin,_ claiming her for Mythal in a harsh outline. The thin, shallow scar that ran the length of her jaw before disappearing behind her nicked ear. The little marks and calluses that dotted her otherwise delicate hands, looking prominent in the inconstant fire. And the edge of a leather cord, not unlike his own, that rested against the ivory skin of her neck like a line of ink, holding something close to her heart.

She placed her hands together in her lap, worrying the thumb of one against the back of the other. Sapphires ringed with gold dropped from the sky to meet his gaze, and he almost expected her to speak. But she just watched him, as he had watched her; those eyes not prying, but observant, flowing over the details of his face.

Silence had been Solas' companion for years beyond counting, and he found it an excellent friend to have. Understanding silence took understanding words and when the time for them had ended. _Her_ silence, however, felt heavy; one he had yet to fully comprehend.

Returning her gaze to the sky, the moment broke, the weight on his chest vanishing. Solas found himself relaxing without realizing he had tensed slightly. He focused his gaze on the campfire and tried to pick out a pattern among the dancing tendrils. Something else to think about.

Then his name cracked the peace, soft and unhurried in her accented voice. "Solas?"

He lifted his eyes to meet hers, questions swimming in her gaze with a carefully gathered calm. "Ilona?" Her name rolled into the air and hovered there, the meaning of it twisting something within him.

She tilted her head, her hair falling over her shoulder as she moved. The stars yearned for her attention, and she gave it to them. "What do you know about the Elven Gods?"

The question stilled him; even his heart felt as though it no longer functioned correctly. But she didn't look anything beyond genuinely curious; eyes returning to him when his reply hesitated. He maintained his calm mask, nodding through the shock and forcing himself to move. "My travels have allowed me… some insight, I would suppose. Why, if I may inquire, do you ask?"

"I was wondering why they're so silent." Her response was soft, thoughtful as she resumed scanning the stars. The cold, glittering blanket in the sky was indeed quiet, offering no promises of salvation or sanction from the world, or for it. Solas followed her gaze, turning her words over in his head.

"Prayers are not always answered. Or they are not answered in ways you expect." He knew the statements were a small consolation, but a corner of her lip quirked up in an almost smile. He had yet to see her honestly smile.

Her words, however, were poisoned with bitterness. "I stopped praying a long time ago. They stopped listening… I saw no reason to continue speaking." One of her hands drifted almost absentmindedly to her stomach, resting briefly before darting away, as though she'd been burned.

An unexpected spark of sympathy pulsed for her, surprising him. Whatever she'd endured had marked her; her voice, her eyes, her skin. All of her had endured hardships, and her gods had been silent. Solas sighed quietly, regretting how little the Dalish actually remembered. Wishing, not for the first time, that they were more than mere shadows of what the People had been.

"Hopelessness may not make them listen." He shifted against the ground, uncrossing and re-crossing his legs.

She chuckled softly. "I'm more worried they're disappearing. I remember a time when I believed they listened." Soundlessly, she collapsed against her bedroll and turned her head to look at him again. "Or maybe I woke up." Another almost smile, but it didn't reach those eyes. "You're also not denying any of this."

The notice of his denial to comment nearly made him flinch. He caught it before it cracked his calm appearance, pausing to choose his words carefully. In a short time, this conversation walked a very dangerous line. "I'm afraid what I have garnered cannot help answer your question."

"Of course not. Silent they remain." With another half-hearted chuckle, she nodded slowly before raising her hands against the stars and glaring at them. "…I'm not even sure I have any gods left to pray to anymore. Who do those like me pray to?" She flipped them over, her palms now facing her, and sighed. Solas wasn't seeing what she saw on her hands, what she had potentially done to survive, what she had done to receive her scars. Whatever the memories were, her eyes darkened, the faint mirth she'd established dying with her next words. "The Wolf?"

For the second time by the fire, she froze him. Something forgotten and ancient stirred within him at the name. If she'd been looking at him, she likely would have noticed the shocked blink and the quick retrieval of composure. But she was lost to her memories.

"He may listen." The statement made him clamp his teeth together with regret the minute it passed his lips. She was facing him again, her hands laced together and pressed against her chest. Those gold-flecked eyes searched his face.

"What makes you think that?"

He shook his head and smirked, still reeling at his own boldness. "Someone must, as is commonly the case. Complete silence can often be deafening."

Her eyes clouded again, his words clearly striking home. "It can." She rolled onto her side, no longer facing him. Her next words were muffled, laced with loss. "I did pray to Fen'Harel… once." Solas blinked at her back, at this open confession. His hand found the jawbone around his neck out of habit as he waited for her to continue. She appeared to fold in on herself, her voice so soft he barely caught it. "He didn't listen."


	4. Echo

**A/N:** I just want to say thank you again to all the reviewers and supporters of this story! I hope it's as much fun to read as it is to write! :)

* * *

The mages had let fear rule their decision. Allying with Tevinter, no matter how much false protection their magister offered, did nothing but make them slaves. Which was precisely what Solas was trying to avoid. More slaves, more Tranquil wandering the world with no knowledge or understanding. Everything about it was wrong.

How could they have let themselves be so blind?

He shook his head, considering the irony of having to deal with another magister. Granted, this Alexius was significantly less intimidating than the one that had ruined it all, but he had a madness in his eyes that set Solas' old memories flaring.

Standing in the throne room, facing him again, Solas saw it. The raw desperation flickering in his gaze, hidden beneath the mask of a man who wielded power and knew it. In a state like this, he was dangerous, volatile, and unpredictable. But it was not outwardly obvious, Solas knew. He allowed his eyes to narrow in suspicion as Alexius conducted conversation with Ilona. He went ignored, as usual; Alexius' gaze lingered on Ilona's hand, where the curling scars of the Anchor were visible.

Solas appraised the magister's stance and tone of voice. He had no staff within range, and the guards he had brought to oversee the group wielded nothing more than small daggers. Yet, the rift in the chantry and the information from Dorian indicated Alexius was prepared. What was his plan? The way he eyed the Anchor, there surely was a plan buried behind the calm demeanor and the soothing tone.

Nothing was ever this simple. The fragments of his initial plan, in addition to the current situation with the mages, proved as much. So Solas waited. Something was certain to go wrong.

The son—Felix—had turned to his father, revealing that the group of them were aware of his dabbling in time magic. Another thing Solas found completely confounding. Who could possibly hope to control time itself? He restrained himself from shaking his head again as Alexius' eyebrows narrowed at his son. His calm persona splintered at the edges; a note of the hidden desperation crept into his voice. At Solas' side, Ilona shifted her wrists the way she did when she expected a fight. Solas caught the tiny sparks between her fingers.

Pushing away the notion that he had retained such a small observation of her, his attention returned to Alexius, who had grown tense in his chair. Ilona tried to soothe him, her voice soft and unintimidating against the growing rage of his. "Felix is worried about you. He fears you have stepped into dangerous waters."

She lifted her unmarked hand in a gesture of peace, carefully angling the Anchor out of Alexius' line of sight. So she had noticed he was watching it. He shouldn't have doubted she would.

Alexius scoffed, a sound that echoed in the cavernous room. His voice was like venom now, all complacency and cooperation fading like the sun at dusk. "So says the thief. You want to turn my son against me?"

Ilona's eyebrows lifted slightly, but her voice remained calm. Deathly so. "I did not mean it as an accusation, Ale—"

The magister cut her off, rising from his chair and glaring at her. Solas marveled at how calm she remained in the face of his open distaste and anger. "Silence. You walk into my stronghold with your stolen mark, a gift you don't even understand, and you think you're in control?"

Solas wanted to laugh. What the magister thought he knew was enough to send the desire curling through him, but he crushed it beneath a heel, instead gauging Ilona's reaction to the scalding words. Quickly, this conversation had deteriorated, and the already volatile man was teetering on an edge. The madness was clear in his eyes.

"I made no such claim. However, since you seem to know what side you stand on, what was supposed to happen? What was this supposed to do?" She lifted the Anchor for Alexius to see, that furrow appearing between her eyebrows as she demanded answers. Solas expected no less. She had started this quest wanting to understand it.

But Alexius laughed coldly, shaking his head. "The answers would be wasted on you. You're nothing but a mistake. You stole the Elder One's prize, though you were unworthy."

Prize? Is that what the magister considered the Anchor? Some kind of trophy for all he would accomplish? Solas locked his jaw, and Ilona dropped her hand. Clearly Alexius was not going to be the most forthcoming.

Felix's lips had turned down in a frown, and he took a step closer. "Father, _listen_ to yourself. Do you know what you sound like?" Solas had the feeling his pleading would fall on deaf ears. The man in front of them did not seem keen to listen to reason.

"He sounds exactly like the sort of villainous cliché everyone expects us to be." Dorian materialized seemingly from thin air to Ilona's left, a veritable walking firework with all that unnecessary embellishment. Solas was unsure where he had managed to hide.

"Dorian." Alexius regarded his former pupil with thinly veiled disappointment, though he didn't look the slightest bit surprised. "I gave you a chance to be a part of this. You turned me down, though the Elder One has power you wouldn't believe."

Ilona leapt into the conversation, drawing Alexius' gaze away from Dorian and back to her. "Who is the Elder One? Is he a mage?" More questions, that desire to understand burning in her eyes.

Alexius smirked, and the gesture looked sharp as a dagger. "Soon he will become a god." There was such certainty in the statement, like the victory was inevitable. Solas repressed the urge to scoff. As long as the Anchor endured, that would never come to pass. The magister, "The Elder One", was undeserving of that kind of power. He would wield it with malice.

"Stop it, Father. Give up the Venatori. Let the Southern mages fight the Breach, and let's go home." Felix was honestly pleading now, one hand on Alexius' arm.

His father shook his head vigorously. "No. It is the only way. He can save you, he promised. If I undo the mistake at the Temple…"

And there it was, the desperation. It was the only emotion that colored Alexius' voice now, and it made everything make sense. Solas saw him now not as a man with too much power, but one who did not believe he had enough. Something was threatening to take his son from him, and he had turned to the only thing that had promised salvation.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

The sounds of throats being slit caused Alexius' gaze to flick to his surroundings at last, where Inquisition scouts had just dropped his men. The silence, for a moment, was heavy with his defeat. But Solas knew he wasn't done yet. There was still something…

"You… are a mistake! You never should have existed!" Alexius' voice contorted with rage, and he lifted a glowing amulet in his right hand, extending it towards Ilona with hatred in his eyes. The amulet sparked and crackled with an eerie green glow, and worry formed in the pit of Solas' stomach. The magic felt _wrong,_ old and twisted and tangled, like it was forced into existence instead of formed naturally.

Dorian reacted before Solas did, aiming his staff at the glowing amulet and sending a wave of sparks into Alexius' face. "No!"

Everything fell into chaos. The magister recoiled, the amulet flashed, and a sickly jade portal formed in the middle of the room. Dorian vanished with a cry of surprise, and Ilona, closest to him, was dragged in as well. She struggled against the pull, reaching in a panic for anything to hold on to. Solas extended a hand, knowing that if they lost her it was all over. But she was too far away, and the magic was too strong. He held her for a moment before she was snatched from his grasp. The memory of her eyes, wide with shock, seared itself into his mind.

The amulet rattled to the stone floor with a sound that rang with finality. Solas felt hollow. She was gone, the Anchor along with her, Void only knew where. The very high possibility that she was dead sealed all of their fates. He had failed. Without the Anchor, there was no way to stop the magister's bleed over the world. Everything he had worked for, everything he had sacrificed… gone. All in vain.

Silence pressed in from every direction before a horde of Venatori appeared and circled him and Bull, blocking escape routes. The Inquisition scouts, quiet with apparent shock, let their weapons clang to the floor. Their Herald was gone, no more than a wisp of smoke. Solas gave Bull the smallest shake of his head. Resistance at this point was useless. The Qunari tensed and glared at him, but after a lengthy staredown seemed to accept that this was a battle he could not win.

There were simply too many of them, and neither he nor Bull had a reason to fight any longer.

Weapons were taken and vanished, likely never to be seen again. The last thing Solas heard before allowing himself to be escorted away was Felix making a soft noise like a wounded animal. "Father… what have you _done?"_

What, indeed.

* * *

How many days had it been? They were starting to blur together. The red lyrium in his cell sang an echoing, fragmented melody, dredging into the deepest, hidden corners of his mind.

It whispered of his failures, his mistakes.

It promised power, and salvation, and success.

Solas shook his head, trying to block it out.

It never worked.

* * *

Elgar'nan arrived without ceremony, outlined in red. He rested an unscarred hand on the cell and shook his head.

"Look at you, Dread Wolf. So low. It's sad."

Solas did not give him the pleasure of a reply.

* * *

Falon'Din watched him with sad, wide eyes. Red smoke framed his dark hair, braided in rows as it always had been.

"You are quiet, Wolf. Dying like an animal."

He did not receive words, either.

* * *

Andruil ran the tip of one of her arrows along the bars. The high, ringing melody set his nerves on edge.

"I don't see the point of it all. You failed in the end."

The smoke distorted her face. Her smile looked wicked, broken like that.

* * *

Dirthamen sat quiet and stoic across the room, never coming near. He did not move save to tip his head slightly.

"You thought you understood. You did not."

He was so calm for one trapped in this place.

* * *

Ghilan'nain paced in front of the bars, her footsteps silent. She shot glances at him occasionally, out of the corner of her eye.

"You were misguided, Wolf. Naïve. And this is where your path lead."

Her words made less sense the longer he thought about them.

* * *

June lifted the lock and examined it, his hand rippling when he touched it. His fingers fiddled with the mechanisms, but he left it locked.

"You did this to yourself. This is what you wanted, is it not?"

Was it? For a moment, he couldn't remember.

* * *

Sylaise played with fire, letting it dance between her fingertips. She looked at him with pity over the twitching flames.

"You're forgetting, Fen'Harel. You'd be sad to see how far your mind has gone."

What did it matter? He was dying, regardless.

* * *

They stopped coming. The lyrium had run out of memories to scrape across his eyes. The area outside his cell was blissfully empty, but the whispers had grown louder.

When had it become so difficult to move?

Solas shifted on his feet, each limb feeling heavy. His vision was tinted crimson at the edges, and no amount of blinking cleared it. He was dying, but he had been for a long time.

However many days it had been, however many months; he was ready for it to end. For the whispers to cease. The events of the past had been replayed by the lyrium seeking weaknesses, but he could not be broken so easily. Days were missing from his memory, however, replaced with a hazy cloud.

He could no longer summon the ability to care. Some days were clear as crystal, others lost to the whispers. Pacing the length of his cell, he forced himself to move, at the very least. What remained of his pride did not want to die sitting down.

Vaguely, he wondered how many of the Inquisition's members still lived, if any at all. He wondered if they had lasted long against the tide of power the magister had wielded. The presence of demons in the halls of the castle boded ill. An army of them had been raised; the Venatori whispered about it where they thought he could not hear.

Any hope of success had died with Ilona. Solas could still faintly recall the way her voice sounded, and how her eyes had reflected the stars. He allowed himself these moments of clarity because she was gone. For a time, they had kept the whispers at bay, but memories were no longer enough.

He continued pacing, back and forth. Back and forth. A monotonous pattern, over and over. It kept the heavy feeling sated, but did little to alleviate the weight in his mind. His end would come soon. It was only a matter of how benevolent the lyrium decided to be.

The creaking of the door halted him in the middle of his cell, his back to the bars. His usual ghosts made no sound upon their entry; they simply faded into existence. A Venatori, then, coming to gloat? None had done that in such a long time. Still facing the wall, he tested his voice. It grated between his lips from months of silence.

"Is someone there?" He wasn't entirely sure what reply he expected. A throaty laugh, perhaps. The snarl of a wandering demon. The ring of steel as a soldier walked by.

Not _her._

"Solas?" Her voice was exactly the same, layered accents tripping over one another as they left her lips. His name quivered with relief.

Slowly, he turned to face the sound, not entirely trusting she was real. But upon seeing her, his eyes widened. He couldn't stop them. She was not outlined in red. Her form did not ripple. Bright, gold-ringed sapphires flickered over him, clouding with concern. "…I found you." Her voice did not echo and scrape.

She was _real._ And he felt some of the whispers flee in terror. "…We saw you die." He could, at the moment, think of nothing else to say.

Dorian spoke from behind her; he too appeared to be real. "The spell Alexius cast displaced us in time. We… just got here, so to speak." The mage reached around and unlocked the door of his cell, letting the mechanism June had so carefully admired fall to the ground with a clink.

Solas stepped away from the lyrium for the first time in months, and even the slight distance seemed to clear his head a little. He processed Dorian's words. "Can you reverse the process? You could… return and obviate the events of the last… year." It had been a year. By the Void. He gave his head another shake, clearing more of the whispers. It was not a permanent fix by any means, but it would do for now. "It may not be too late."

The other mage blinked, his eyes flicking between Solas and the lyrium. He appeared surprised that Solas had understood his explanation. Ilona was the one to speak; her eyes had not left Solas' face since finding him. "What happened to you, Solas? You look… ill." There was honest concern in her voice.

A faint smile—the first one in recent memory—tugged the corners of his lips. It was very like her to be first concerned over the well-being of others. Let the threat of this future wait for a moment. He returned her stare. "I am dying. But it is not something that can be prevented any longer." June's words bounced around his mind, suddenly. _"This is what you wanted, is it not?"_ His head clearer, he tipped it thoughtfully. "You would think the threat of death would prevent me from making such terrible mistakes. You would be wrong."

Perhaps the lyrium made his tongue looser, as well. Ilona blinked twice at the words, but said nothing. He did not have the time to worry over what he had just hinted to. Recovering, he let his eyes shift between the two of them. "Regardless, this world is far worse than you already know. The Elder One rules, unchallenged. He commands an army of demons, and has assassinated Empress Celene, using the chaos to invade the south. If you defeat Alexius, you must be prepared for it all."

Ilona nodded slowly, glancing quickly to Dorian before returning her gaze to him. "We can't do this without you." She seemed almost reluctant to ask for his help. It likely had something to do with his condition.

"If there is any hope left, any way to save them… my life is yours." She did not understand the weight he placed on "them", but voicing it aloud gave him purpose. That, and he felt, perhaps more than necessarily, confident in placing his life in her hands. He still wasn't entirely sure why, even with so long to reflect on it. She had proven herself capable so far, beyond capable. With her alive, this future had a large chance of fading. "This future is an abomination. It must never come to pass."

Her eyes were lined with worry, but she nodded. "You are right, of course." If the worry was for his safety, she should not be concerned. He was already dying; he would much rather die fighting. She located his coat and staff, which were still in the dungeon by some miracle. Armed for battle, Solas followed her out of the room and back up the stairs. Iron Bull was leaning against the doorframe farther up the hallway, red dancing around his head and shoulders.

He nodded at Solas, once. They had both endured pain and memories in these cells; he could see it in Bull's remaining eye. But it did not need to be discussed. They did not have time. This future, mangled and distorted beyond recognition, had to be stopped.

So the pain and the memories went unspoken, locked away in the cells with the lyrium that had slowly stolen what remained of their lives. The ghosts and the regrets were pushed to a corner of his mind. Solas knew his time was limited; he could feel it in the weak pulses of his heart. He trusted Ilona to succeed, though, no matter the fate that befell him. He wasn't sure _when_ he'd started trusting her, and it didn't matter at the moment. If she cleared this future from existence, it wouldn't matter again.

But behind him, faded and soft, he thought he heard Sylaise laugh.


	5. Compassion

"Forces approaching! To arms!" Cullen's voice broke their soft conversation, Ilona's eyes snapping to where he dashed past in a crimson blur. The moment of peace shattered, fracturing over everything they had accomplished. Of course it wasn't over; Solas had never allowed the peace to sink in. The magister was still a threat. A threat that, were he to guess, had just arrived to claim his due.

Ilona shook her head as though to clear it, spinning on a heel. "I knew… I knew we were celebrating too soon." War and agony danced behind her eyes. People were going to die, and she was all too aware. Solas bit back soothing words, instead twisting his staff free and inclining his head.

"They may require assistance. We should go to the gates." The guilt writing itself over her face sparked his own. She was not to blame. Yet she shouldered it anyway.

The warning bells began tolling as the two of them made their way down the path to the locked gates. Ilona twisted her wrists worriedly, shifting effortlessly between fire and lightning as she reached the advisors looped in a half circle, whispering. Iron Bull and Varric jogged over upon seeing her, the dwarf running a hand over Bianca with his lips set in a thin line. Sera and Vivienne were nowhere to be seen.

Solas caught the end of their conversation as he joined them, pressing the end of his staff into the dirt. "—what banner?" Josephine's hands were pressed together, eyes bright with worry as she eyed Cullen.

"None." The commander ran a hand over his neck in apparent exasperation before waving it at the closed gates. He looked appropriately lost.

"None?" Her eyebrows drew together in confusion at the same time Varric kicked a rock.

"Well, shit." It bounced away down the incline as he voiced what several of them were likely thinking. Cullen fiddled with the hilt of his sword, mouth open as though he lacked words to identify the situation.

They were disorganized, confused, and in this state, they were going to fail. If who Solas thought was approaching over that mountain… the flailing Inquisition had little hope of success. He sank his staff deeper into the ground but said nothing. Not his place; he had no desire to give too much knowledge away.

Ilona did speak, however, voice soft against the ringing of the bells. Her eyes flickered between the advisors as though she was uncertain she _should_ speak. "…Standing here will not accomplish anything. We need to evacuate the unarmed and the wounded. And… we need to hold as much ground as possible."

A protective anger flashed through her, bright and whole against the chaos. She seemed to hold her head a little higher, though her words remained hesitant and gentle. Solas found himself swallowing his earlier thoughts. Not all of them were confused. She, at least, was thinking beyond the present moment.

Leliana nodded, turning to ascend the stairs. "I shall begin seeking escape routes, Herald." She vanished into the snow, back toward the chantry. Josephine followed her, clearly not suited for battle. Cullen drew his sword and sighed deeply.

"Haven is not built to—" whatever else he was going to say was silenced by a commotion outside.

The gates rattled, some burst of magic shaking them on their hinges. Solas instinctively threw a barrier around the assembled party, but no more attacks threatened them. Instead, a voice leaked through the lull in the noise, whispery and quiet, but panicked. "I can't come in unless you open!"

In the blue glow of the barrier, Ilona's features were sharper, more defined. Her spark of recognition was even more so as her eyebrows pulled together. She moved, fluidly, slipping between him and Cullen and, with the assistance of a baffled solider, flung the gates wide. Cullen lowered himself into a defensive position, and Bull cracked a shoulder muscle somewhere behind him. The whirring of Bianca joined the noise, all four of them prepared for whatever the Herald had decided to greet.

A gurgle and the soft _thud_ of a body revealed a young boy, likely no older than seventeen, holding a dagger that dripped with the evidence of his skills. Seven bodies littered the ground around him, each covered in a variety of stab wounds. Solas tilted his head at the sight. He didn't appear like the rest of them. He wavered in his form, pieces of the Fade clung to him like snowflakes. Not a boy at all. A spirit.

He expected Ilona to falter, to recoil, as so many had before. Cullen did, warily eyeing this new arrival, sword extended to protect Ilona as she moved closer to him. Her posture held no fear. The spirit did not speak, instead raising his head slightly to see her better. A wide brimmed hat obscured most of his face, hiding him until he lifted it. His eyes, wide and bright and blue, blinked at her behind tangled strands of blonde hair.

She extended a hand to him, her fingers unsteady, hovering there in the space between them. "Cole…?" The word was so quiet, so hesitant, Solas had to strain to ensure he understood. Had she encountered him before? She was clearly not afraid of him. But if so, how did they know one another? How was he here?

The questions reverberated around the stillness as the spirit tipped his head. Then he spoke. _"He can't be real. He disappeared, vanished, gone."_ He paused, giving his head a firm shake, as though trying to free himself from something. "You didn't forget." He returned her tentative gaze, eyes bright but sad.

Cullen interrupted their staring contest, the silence broken by his cough and the sound of marching. "Herald…"

Solas cursed him, silently, fascinated by the exchange that had been occurring. She had encountered a spirit, remembered, and had befriended him, if his assumptions were correct. Another story from her past, another piece of her revealed, though covered and shrouded in questions. Questions he regretted wanting to ask.

The spirit, this 'Cole', hovered closer to Ilona, frown replacing the faint awe at seeing her. "I came to warn you, to help. People are coming to hurt you… you probably already know." His proximity caused Cullen to level his blade at the spirit, and Cole slid several steps back, eyes hurt and wary. Every bone in Solas' body went rigid, but Ilona beat him to a reprimand, laying a gentle hand on the commander's arm and lowering the sword.

"Don't… please. I trust him." The words were soft, but firm. Head turned to look at Cullen, Solas could see her eyes again. They brimmed with relief, raw and bright, but a flint of resolve flickered as well, daring the commander to touch him. He allowed himself to be silently impressed. She protected those she cared about with a steadily burning fire. Turning to face the spirit again, she moved closer to him, a hand still extended to keep Cullen behind her. "Cole, what's happening? Who are they?"

The spirit had started to flicker, murmuring under his breath, words too fast for even Solas to comprehend. Ilona reached out and held his wrist, carefully, as though he would break. The sounds of metal greaves and gauntlets echoing over the hills grew louder. "Cole… focus. Focus on me, my voice."

Solas knew what she was doing; anchoring him here, to the world around him. To her, as he clearly knew who she was. A technique he had used countless times before, but she sounded so calm, so soothing, that another allowance of appreciation curled through him. She… she was different.

"They're loud. Red and rough and ruined, taken from who they are and yet still them." Cole shook his head, eyes pained. Snow that had been clinging to the brim of his hat sifted free, dusting Ilona and sticking to her hair, but she didn't flinch. Simply waited, still holding him here. "Red, everywhere. Every vein, every pore, every fiber. Can't think, can't speak. Trapped in the bodies they used to understand. Caged." His whispers ceased as he lowered his head again, obscuring his face.

Ilona was silent for the space of a few heartbeats, then leaned closer to him. "Who?" A gentle prodding, carefully forming his words into ones that made sense.

He remained staring at the ground, voice painfully soft. His hand in Ilona's tightened, then relaxed. "The Templars. They come to kill you." He raised his head again, and Solas could see the determination in his gaze as it met hers. "I won't let them."

Cullen slid around her at last, clearly frustrated. He angled his sword away from them both, though Solas could see the crushing grip he held it in. "The Templars? Is this their response to our talks with the mages? Attacking blindly?" Confusion ringed the words.

Cole shook his head, still anchored to Ilona. "They went to the Elder One. Red, crimson, color of blood, inside and outside, warping, whispers." He paused, exhaled, and then turned to her again. "Do you know him? He knows you. You took his mages." Using his free hand, he pointed up the mountain to where the force was approaching. Torches burned like winking candles through the snow. "There... He's very angry that you took his mages."

Solas followed the direction he pointed, viewing the threat on the edge of a cliff. The magister lurked over a smaller figure standing beneath him, clawed hands hanging at his sides, head arched to better survey his army. A wash of anger flooded him, at this monster who thought he deserved the power of a god. How ignorant and foolish he was. How petty.

Releasing Cole, Ilona spun to face Cullen, anger for a different reason sparking in her gaze. "Give me… anything. We can't let these people die." Her voice was raised slightly, the first time Solas had heard her speak louder than a murmur, and it changed her whole persona. Lightning sparked to life in her palms.

"Haven is no fortress. If we are to withstand this monster we must control the battle." The commander nodded in the direction of the trebuchets. "Get out there and hit that force. Use anything you can." He spun to the slowly assembling group of soldiers and mages that had formed behind him. "Mages! You… you have sanction to engage. That is Samson; he will not make it easy. Inquisition! With the Herald! For your lives; for all of us!"

With a rallying cry, the force divided into groups, spreading through Haven to defend and secure. Ilona turned to the group she had around her, eyes lingering on each in turn. Bull smirked, an honest, bloodthirsty grin, and twirled the handle of his blade through his fingers. Bianca whirred out a melody in Varric's hands. Her gaze fell at last on Solas, and he offered her a faint smile and an inclination of his head. If she was leading, their chances of survival rose. Success… was still hesitant.

"Concentrate on the trebuchets, but aid anyone you can." Then she turned her back on them and faced the door, where Cole still stood.

The spirit had a second dagger now clutched in his other hand, head lowered, posture fluid. He gave it an almost experimental twirl, the steel catching the light of a torch. "I want to help."

Ilona nodded. "Of course. Just… stay close to me, okay?" A faint note of concern crept into her voice, making it higher. Cole moved to stand next to her.

"Placed, present, protect. She's afraid." He whispered, softly, to himself. Solas was unsure if Ilona heard him, but he settled into a spot to her left and did not move until she did. "I'm here." She heard him that time, turning her head to smile at him faintly, but it didn't reach her eyes. It never did.

Bull had taken several steps back from Cole, eyes narrowed in outright suspicion, but remained blissfully silent. At least he had the sense to keep his opinions to himself, and without another word Ilona led them down the stairs to the first trebuchet, crewed by a small company of soldiers.

"Keep them off us!" The woman manning the dial cried down to them from her perch. A group of eight Templars, sickly pale beneath their helmets, surged up the mountainside, right into Bull's waiting blade.

Chaos erupted. Cole vanished in a cloud of green wisps, dancing around the edges of the conflict to slide his daggers into weak points with a stoic efficiency. Words tumbled past his lips as he moved, too soft to hear over the singing of steel. Varric remained in the back, Bianca firing bolts like a steady heartbeat. And Ilona moved like water, lightning bouncing from her fingertips, weaving between Bull's steady swings and Cole's smooth slices as though she was an afterthought.

Solas maintained the barrier around the party and launched a fair share of Winter's Grasp into the assembled crowd, leaving them chilled and slowed for a well-placed dagger. He kept his thoughts focused on the battle unfolding around him, not on the ramifications of the situation. Not on the fact that they were overrun. Not on the screams of the dying and the smell of blood and smoke.

Collateral damage. Caught in the crossfire of this war he had fanned the flames of. And then the fight was over, and the trebuchet tossed a rock into the arriving force, flattening trees and causing waves of snow to fall around them. Ilona came to a twirling halt next to him, breathing heavily, strands of raven hair pried loose from her braid and stuck to her cheeks. They waited for the second trebuchet, but it remained still. She wrung her hands.

"It… isn't firing." She broke into a run, the group following as they left the first behind. A wash of Templars, tainted red just as Cole had claimed, surrounded the machine. Ilona didn't hesitate. She extended both of her hands, pressed together at the wrists, and a pillar of fire shot forth. Screams of pain and the smell of burning flesh hit Solas as he finally reached her and covered them both in a barrier. Bull crashed into the remaining forces, bellowing out a war cry, and blinks of light could be seen as Cole dropped in and out of stealth, slicing unsuspecting throats.

Still, there were more of them, bleeding over the hill like a plague, and he soon lost sight of Ilona as she threw herself into the mass of them, releasing lightning and fire as she went. Winter's Grasp froze a group of them solid, which Bull dropped his sword against with a force that shook the ground. He lost himself to the flow of combat; dodge, barrier, Winter, breathe.

And then silence. Blood dripped from the end of Bull's sword, from the tips of Cole's daggers, from a scratch on Varric's arm. His own shoulder sang with pain, a wound he did not remember receiving. Ilona appeared largely unscathed, though her dark robes did much to hide wounds. She wrapped both of her hands around the aiming dial and twisted it, the sound grinding all the way down the machine to rattle his ears.

With a final spin, it locked and then fired, sending the rock spiraling into the mountainside with a rumble and an avalanche of snow. The remaining torches on the approach winked out of existence. Cheers rose from the streets of Haven, but Solas narrowed his eyes. The magister did not fall that easily. If he had, they would not be here now. Ilona did not celebrate either, clasping her hands behind her back and rising onto her toes to better see over the tree line.

They were all focused on the land, not the sky. Not until the roar of a dragon and a blast of crimson flames scorched the ground around them, knocking each of them onto their backs. The cheers turned into screams once more. Solas used his staff to aid himself, the first to recover, and shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears.

He had a dragon. The magister, as if he did not possess enough power, now had a _dragon._ Ice crusted the handle of his staff in a rare display of fury. He could almost feel the hope fizzling out around him, dying in that flash of red light. Ilona had landed on her back next to him, one arm splayed over her face. She did not move, and for some reason the idea caused a flare of panic to rise in his throat. Then she shifted, moved her arm, and the sapphires locked to his face.

Solas extended a hand to aid her in rising, which she took almost reluctantly. Her fingers were soft against his, small. She dropped his hand once she was standing and laced her fingers together in front of her. "We have to get back to the gates. This… this is lost." She almost choked on the last word as Cole, Varric, and Bull all gathered around her. Turning, she led them back to the gates. Bull stopped to help Harritt open the door to the forge as they jogged by, the smith's cries of thanks following them to the waiting entrance.

Cullen waved them through, panic in his eyes. Once the last of Haven's residents had followed, they heaved the gates shut. He ran a hand through his hair and rested it on the hilt of his sword. His composure was fracturing. "We have to get back to the Chantry. It's the only building that might hold out against that… beast." Anger then returned, pushing his eyebrows low over his eyes before he turned to climb the stairs. "At this point… just make them work for it."

Silence reigned after he left, Ilona's eyes wide with shock. She blinked after a moment, turning to face them. "We have to help as many as we can. Saving innocents is our first priority. Then we will go to the Chantry." Her voice was soft again, though raw determination filled her eyes that met each of her companions' before she turned and raced up the staircase, following the sound of screams. Such selflessness, buried deep beneath her calm. A trait molded by past experiences she likely told no one.

Solas trailed her, readying a barrier, while Varric and Bull remained close for support. Cole remained a few paces behind Solas, mumbling something to himself. He turned slightly to try to catch the words, but the spirit rose his head and looked directly at him. _"Bright. Aware. Tugging, drawing, curious. Why do I care so much? Why is she different?"_

He blinked at the words, at the honesty bright on Cole's face. He could not find the words to answer his own thoughts being spoken aloud. Ice blue eyes danced over him, reading, knowing, and learning more than he wanted. Cole spoke one last time before drawing his daggers and vanishing into the brawl. "A slow arrow breaks in the sad wolf's jaws. Had to kill him, because he thought they were people. Hypocritical wolf."

The silence he left behind chilled Solas, though the buildings around him were ablaze. It took him a moment to cleanse the feeling, focus on Ilona's order of aid. But the words never really went away.

Compassion.

Of course he was Compassion.


	6. Distraction

Solas trailed the brush the length of the wall, leaving a swathe of orange that stretched from his maximum reach to the floor. The color brought light to the room, brightening the walls that had fallen to neglect and disrepair over the years. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the purpose the room had once served; the colors and laughter coming to life in his mind's eye.

When he opened them once more, the memory faded, leaving the room in its current state, the beginnings of his mural curving down the stone. Working by a half-dozen torches and what moonlight the thin window provided, the process was slow. But Solas was nothing if not patient, preferring the unhurried pace he set to the rushed momentum of other tasks the Inquisition required of him.

He allowed himself a sigh, continuing his straight, even strokes. Merely ten days since the Inquisition's arrival at Skyhold, and so many questions had been whispered, shouted, and answered that he'd become quite evasive this most recent day, choosing to remain in the room he had selected. The door only opened once, earlier in the day, bringing an irritable Master Tethras with a distinct frown, where he'd dropped into the chair Solas had managed to locate and crossed his arms.

The elf had chuckled softly, in the process of removing some debris that had regrettably fallen from the rookery, clearly years ago. He placed the splintered wood by the door for passing workers to collect and dusted his hands against his robe. "Do sit, Master Tethras."

"I've got a name, Chuckles," the dwarf had snorted, tilting his head. "And I already have."

With a nod, Solas crossed his legs and sat on the floor in the space he'd just cleared, unbothered by the still-warming stone. "Indeed. Something on your mind?"

Varric worried a fraying string on his shirt, near the gold braiding that ringed the open collar. "Hawke arrived. Thought the Seeker was going to kill me." He raised his index fingers to his eyes and nearly drilled them into his skull, wrinkling his nose. "I swear, the woman has daggers for eyes."

Solas raised a quizzical eyebrow, attempting to remember what had been said of the Champion of Kirkwall. 'Quick with a fireball, and even quicker with a witty remark' seemed to be the general opinion of all who had met her. Varric re-crossed his arms and glared out the single window. Solas sighed softly. "You were entirely aware of possible consequences, I'm sure. Else you wouldn't have acted on your words."

"You're right, I was," Varric mused, tapping his fingers against his forearm. "I just, shit. I didn't want to drag Hawke back into this mess. Not even a little. But Corypheus had to go and _survive_ our little encounter, and she knows just as much as I do, maybe _more_ than I do…"

The regret in his words was tinged with determination, causing Solas to nod slowly. "War is not a simple thing. I believe that, given the circumstances, we sorely need Hawke's expertise." He smiled faintly. "And I'm sure she is just as aware of any and all outcomes. Or she would still be in hiding."

"She'd be safer hiding." Varric closed his eyes, rubbing his fingertips against his temples. "Sod it; she's done so much already. For that damn city, for Thedas itself. No gratitude." He stood, giving his head a single shake. "…She'll be fine. Thanks for letting me rave, Chuckles."

"I find myself quite adept at listening, Master Tethras. That much I can help with." Solas rose to his feet as well, understanding the worry Varric had for a friend. "Before you go, have you seen the Inquisitor?"

Varric paused, one hand on the doorknob, and tapped a boot against the floor. "…Now that you say so, no. Not since she stood between me and a spitting Seeker earlier."

Solas envisioned a livid Cassandra and reached the conclusion he could exist happily without ever being on the receiving end of her temper. He inclined his head, and Varric smiled before disappearing back through the door. As it closed, Solas watched him rest his arms against one of the tables and set his lips in a hard line before the latch clicked into place.

Alone once more, he had set about clearing the rest of the room of fallen rubble. The Inquisitor, as expressed by one of his agents, had returned shortly afterwards and had remained in the throne room, overseeing the construction efforts with a few soft pieces of advice. She had then disappeared into her quarters and had not emerged since.

Solas' thoughts snapped back to the present, having been dragged into the past by wandering moments once more. Having spoken to no one save Varric for the entirety of the day, he found he missed the companionship, trying as some of the conversations had been. Not to mention how delicately he had to answer each question given to him, considering his words carefully so as to give nothing away. The closer to the end they reached, the smaller the wire he walked became.

A flash of light through the slit window drew his attention, pushing the worry from his gaze. He placed his supplies on the floor at the spot he had left off and wandered to the window, peering into the courtyard. There was another flash, directly below him. Who was out training at this hour?

Some tug in his stomach made him move, collecting his coat and venturing from his room and down the stairs. A chill mountain breeze whistled from the peaks, turning the tips of his ears instantly cold. Yet another thing that had not improved with time. The weather in the mountains still made him wince, though luckily the warmer weather approached at a breakneck pace, due to arrive within weeks. He placed his hands deep in his coat as he reached the training grounds, stopping at the edge of the dirt outline.

None other than Ilona stood in the center of the training grounds, fire licking its way up her wrists. Her normally serene face was twisted in raw, honest pain. It traced lines down her cheeks and shattered her eyes with its force. She didn't acknowledge his presence if she noticed his arrival, which he presumed she did. She noticed far too much.

He watched her twist her wrists and the fire shift to lightning, crackling between her fingers and casting dark shadows over her face. She took a deep, shaking breath, the air hitching as it passed her lips. Solas was taken aback by how small she looked, how that desire to protect her roared at the thought of anything shattering her. He restrained it, ordering its return to the back of his mind.

And yet, he knew how Varric felt, concerned for Hawke. Every fiber of him rebelled at the idea, but he appeared to have a significant lack of control over his own heart these recent days. He returned his gaze to the Inquisitor, who had started to bounce on the balls of her feet. The lightning in her palms glowed almost blue now, and her face had settled back into its traditional calm demeanor.

After a few heartbeats of apparent concentration, she _moved._ Not like any mage should have been able to. Flowing like water, she mimed a swordfight, rolling and dodging in sheaves of dark fabric. Whatever maneuvers her mind gave her opponent, she launched a lightning bolt from her fingertips, the deadly arc sparking to the practice dummy and scorching it from neck to torso. The smell of charred fabric filled the air.

She didn't stop moving after the spell, continuing her sideways dodge in a graceful twirl, the torchlight catching the elegant angles of her face. Solas forced himself to focus on her movements, not her face. Not the way her eyes reflected the light and the stars. He shook his head, both furious and fascinated. What a mystery she was.

Now at the dummy's side, she twirled her wrists again, aiming her fingers at the side of its head. A cone of flames, blue with heat, slithered forth, as though a dragon had unleashed its anger. The once-beige face of the dummy turned charcoal black and started to burn, but neither its shoulders nor the area behind it was even slightly scorched. The control she had over her magic astounded him as he watched her leap backward and land lightly, her face once again contorted with pain.

Glaring at her combatant across from her, she narrowed her eyes. Solas wasn't sure what she was envisioning, what she was seeing and hoping to defeat. He remained silent, regarding this release of her anger and pain, so very unlike the soft-spoken leader she appeared to be. But he knew a thing or two about wearing masks. And how very heavy they were.

She moved again, maneuvering effortlessly through several more rolls and weaves before ending face-to-face with the dummy, fire in her eyes. Placing both of her hands on its straw chest, she reassembled a neutral expression and sighed. Flames spread from her palms, orange this time, flickering and burning their way over its torso, reaching its arms and its head. Steadily, slowly, it was consumed, until nothing but a small pile of ashes remained at her feet, stirred in the first breaths of another breeze.

Solas waited for her to speak, if she even decided to. The only sound was her faint, sharp breaths and the wind, which caressed her hair, freeing a few strands from her careful braid. He could nearly feel her loss from where he stood, rolling off her delicate frame in waves and pooling amid the footprints marring the training soil. Faint fire still glowed in her hands; she stared at it as though it was foreign, her profile outlined in its light.

The eerie green glow of the Mark joined the fire, tinging her left palm jade and orange. She focused all of her attention on that hand, dropping her right one to her side and extinguishing it. Mountain wind continued to stir her hair and shudder the flame, but it remained burning.

He wished he knew what she was thinking, desired the knowledge so badly it ached. Taking in the details of her, he noticed her necklace had slid from beneath the folds of her robes during her movements, the object attached to the end of it hanging against her heart. An engraved ring; the firelight passing through several outlines made in the band. He stood at too great a distance to understand the carvings, and as though she knew he had seen it her right hand rose and tucked it back beneath the fabric of her robe, hiding it.

Continuing his content silence, he returned his gaze to her face. The pain had been joined by that wrinkle in her forehead, her indicator of a question. Eventually, she raised those eyes to his, her flame still shaking in her palm. "Solas… what am I doing?"

 _What am I doing?_ The words were like a blow to the chest. She hadn't asked for any of this. His plan, spiraled out of control and now fraying at the edges, had forced this upon her. Her eyes started to well at the corners, drops of sadness highlighted by the fire.

"Why _me?_ What kind of horrible joke is this?" Her words shook, as did her fingers, causing the flame to flicker wildly. Solas set his lips in a thin line, unsure of what to tell her. It seemed as though Haven was not presently the only thing causing the tears. "Others die, and I survive. _Again_." She curled her hand into a fist, snuffing the fire in a small puff of smoke.

That last word rang with an agony so raw it rocked him. She had been a survivor before. He took a step closer to her, the trembling in her usually steady fingers compelling him to move. "…Again?" Not wanting to cause her more pain, but hopelessly curious, he repeated the word softly.

She noticed him advancing and nodded, wrapping her arms around herself tightly, as though trying to prevent something from falling. Perhaps her. "Yes… again. Over and over again…" A single tear rolled down her cheek, like a diamond in the night. She dropped her chin against her chest, voice nearly inaudible and layered with tears. "What am I doing…?" The sentence this time was desolate, hopeless.

Solas stopped a few feet from her side, reminding himself. He couldn't, he shouldn't. It was selfish. He could offer words, but nothing beyond that. Not without breaking them both. "You are giving them hope. Every one of them. Hope that someone can deliver them from the darkness and the evil currently plaguing the lands. Hope that they will one day be able to live in peace once more." He moved closer to her still, seemingly without thinking. "You close the rifts with barely a gesture; that first one with little instruction." He was unsure where all of these words were pouring from; some buried part of his mind he had restrained for so long. But seeing her curled in on herself, defeated, lost, he couldn't stop himself. "And in that moment… I felt the whole world change."

And it had, whether he was entirely willing to admit it to himself or not. She was a mystery, a wonder. She _fascinated_ him. And he was on the edge of the line he had drawn for himself, about to fall.

She lifted her head, dropping her hands to fold in front of her. Silence reigned for a moment before a spark returned to her eyes, the sight of it lightening his heart. Life flickered in them once more, as though his words had sewed a fraying tear in her resolve. "…Felt the whole world change?"

Her face was unreadable, the single tear drying on her cheek. She stopped looking at him, instead dropping her gaze to the ground. Unsure of the whirlwind in his head, he reclined on a heel. "…A figure of speech."

Nodding, she sighed almost shakily, raising her head again. "I'm aware of the metaphor." The stars pooled in her eyes as she turned to scan them. Another long breath. "I'm… more concerned with 'felt.'"

The line he had drawn wavered with the words, with her so close. So easy to cross the line, so easy to embrace what he wanted. So simple. But he had never been one to rush into things, not once in his life had he ever felt the need. He remained on his side of the line, on the edge, but safe in his decision. "You change… everything." It was the truth, but not all of it. Not everything he wanted to say. Not what 'everything' truly meant. The rest needed to remain silent, buried. He couldn't do that to her, couldn't watch her slowly break when the truth finally came to light. Which it would, eventually. One day. And she couldn't be a part of that. It would hurt her beyond reason. He—

She rose onto her toes and kissed him, silencing his thoughts entirely. There became nothing except for _her._ The line he had so carefully drawn, much as it hurt, cracked. He balanced on the edge. So _close._

The brevity almost physically pained him, and then she backed away. One step, and another. Her eyes, bright and so stunningly blue, searched his face with a common observant gaze. An uncertain smile flitted against her lips. Wind-tossed raven strands clung to her cheeks and her neck, framing her face. To him, she had never looked more beautiful. And the line dissolved in front of him.

She had turned away, hurt crawling its way into her gaze, when he pulled her back. His hands found her waist, pressing her against him as he returned the kiss with all the desire he had kept contained. She relaxed into his embrace, lacing her fingers together around his neck. Her palms were warm, flames burning beneath her skin.

His head spun, words unable to form through the _want_ that he had finally achieved. She smelled of mountain air and lilacs and lyrium. Holding her, her hands on his neck, he felt for the first time in countless years that not all hope had died.

He broke the kiss, breathing into the night air and shaking his head against hers. Her eyes were bright as they met his. "Everything alright?"

The answer was no; free of her touch, his mind clear, shock at what he had done was settling in the pit of his stomach. "I apologize. That was… impulsive of me." And selfish. And sure to break her. He lifted his hands from her waist; she blinked and dropped hers as well. He had to warn her now; keep her safely away. Ties to him would only lead to heartache. For both of them. "I… I am not certain this is the best idea. It could lead to trouble."

She released a deep sigh, wringing her hands together. Her eyes remained locked with his. "I'm willing to take that chance... if you are."

Such hope. It burned beneath the surface, kindled behind her eyes that met his with deep resolve. And much as he knew he shouldn't, much as what remained of the elf that had arrived in Haven insisted, he couldn't let her go. "I… may be, yes. If I could take a little time to think. There are… considerations." Willing to spare her now, only to shatter her later.

She reached for him again, settling on finding his hand briefly before appearing to remember. "Take all the time you need." Then she tucked the flyaway strands of her hair behind her ears and turned in a swirl of dark fabric. "Thank you… for everything. Good night, Solas."

Almost on reflex, he caught her hand as she turned away from him. Her breath hitched in a faint gasp. What was it about her? What was she doing to him? "Sleep well, Ilona." He released her, his palm singing where it had grasped hers. That almost-smile crossed her face before she vanished into the darkness, back toward Skyhold. Solas stood alone in the training grounds for what felt like ages, his mind humming with all that had occurred.

He'd thought he understood her. She was quiet, but not shy. Gentle, but not weak. Resolute, but not hopeless. And bits and pieces of her had been left behind on her journey through the perils life had thrown at her, whatever they were, but she was not broken.

She had come close tonight, however. Terrifyingly close. And Ancestors take him, he'd crossed his own line to mend her. A line he'd toed the edge of for so long. Wanting, but restraining. Watching, but never touching. There, but not honestly. Not in the way he could have been. And now, now he could never return to that place of security, where everything he had sacrificed and accomplished made a straight line to his goal. Now, there were variables. Crooks in the line; turns, curves, bends.

Now there was her, and she was more, in a way he never would have thought possible. Her safety, her success, it mattered. It held an importance to him that reached his very core, the fragments of his heart he thought long ago had faded to dust and whispers. She raised questions, questions he now turned over in his head with alarming regularity.

Could the world be saved? Were there those who could hope to comprehend what it was he desired? What it was he had ruined and longed to restore? Could they possibly be…?

He shook his head, glaring at the door Ilona had taken back into the fortress. How easily he now became lost in thought. The notion troubled him; he was becoming distracted.

 _She_ was distracting.


	7. Starlight

_Solas knows the places she hides. The places Ilona tucks herself into when the weight on her shoulders becomes too much, when she can no longer maintain the perfect mask that settles over her features. Her soft voice and calm persona are all an illusion, hiding a bright, brave, intelligent woman who bears world-weary scars on her body and in her eyes._

 _These honest hints of her, pieces and shards he hoards like secrets, brighten the world of tranquil, giving it life. Her life. And the more he learns, the more of her she shares with him in a few quick words or the hint of a smile, the more he questions everything._

 _Her trust, though still growing, twists the corners of his heart. He is undeserving of the light that fills her eyes when she sees him. The soft touch of her hands in his. The endearing lilt of her accented voice as she regales him with adventures he missed. Her spirit, so bright and pure, is being slowly given to him, shard by shard, piece by shattered piece. And when her stories have ended, when she sits in contented silence with her head against his shoulder, it is his turn to speak. His turn to thread lies and half-truths instead of baring pieces of his soul._

 _She listens with rapt attention, nodding and smiling as he weaves these tales, these things he has supposedly experienced. The flecks of gold in her eyes melt him as they remain locked to his face, his lips. When he finishes, she prods the story gently, questions his reasoning. Asks why he didn't visit a certain place as opposed to the one he did. Takes his hand and holds it while she lets the words sink in. Accepts the silence like a lost friend, content to sit and let it percolate through the air._

 _These moments, these sessions of peace and silence, he treasures them. Sifts through the memories with a genuine gladness, one not experienced in years. And he notices, recently, that she is lighter. Happier, if he were to assign a true word to it. Shadows are less prominent in the corners of her eyes. Her words contain less sadness and more mirth, revealing a sense of humor buried under years of pain and loss. He feels, often, that he has unearthed the greatest treasure from beneath the scars. The real Ilona, one kept hidden for so long for fear of losing her. She has gone from a mystery to an answer, an exception to all he once believed._

 _And yet, the truth of him, who he is, what he's done, may cause her to disappear all over again. A burden is always lessened by someone to share it with, and he has become that someone, intentionally or not. The truth of the words is evident in her eyes. When they reach the end, when the darkness of Corypheus' shadow finally is replaced with her light, he will leave. He has no other choice._

Solas shook these thoughts from his head as he reached the garden, not realizing he had been searching for her until the tendrils of her voice drifted from among the leaves. She was singing, tucked among the branches of a sweeping tree, the tips of her toes visible beneath the canopy of leaves. He didn't announce his arrival, leaning against a different trunk and crossing his ankles. Her voice kissed and caressed the elven syllables with pure curves and elegant swirls. An old Dalish lullaby, one he recognized from time spent among those shadows of the People.

Closing his eyes, he forced himself to ignore the song's origins, instead focusing on her voice. It was unlike anything he had ever heard before. Nearly drowned out by a breeze rattling the leaves, she sounded like one of nature's own creations, someone ethereal and ancient. A piece of the wind that only those who truly listened could understand.

He felt he understood. Content with the song and the atmosphere, he waited for her to finish, eyes sealed against his surroundings, absorbing the sounds. When the last note drifted free of her lips, it was as though the entire garden held its breath. Nothing moved; even the sighs of the wind had ceased, leaving the entire area eerily silent in the rising moonlight. Then, she laughed softly, the sound still surprising to him. Her laugh was like a bell, light and honest, ringing out to reach him from where her body was still concealed with foliage.

"I know you're there, Solas." He let himself fully appreciate the way his name sounded in her voice, the mingled accents she had collected like her scars accentuating the O and making the second S quiet, almost absent.

Lifting himself off the trunk, he crossed the gap between his tree and hers until he stood on the roots, peering through the branches to see her clearly. Her dark, raven hair was unbraided, free, curling to the small of her back and framing her face. Those gold-flecked sapphires filled with light upon seeing him, and the smallest hint of a smile searched for purpose on her lips. She looked like Ilona—his Ilona—beautiful and bright and _real._

"I was simply appreciating the sound of your voice." An honest reply; one of few he had given her. The lack of a lie felt strange, but was also oddly freeing. He allowed himself a faint grin as she twirled a strand of hair around a finger and reclined back into the tree.

"I'm glad. …Someone should. The stars are usually my only audience." Her gaze turned thoughtful, angled skyward to ping between the stars visible between the leaves. He rested a hand on the branch she sat on.

"Well, they are lucky to be serenaded by such a lovely voice." He smiled up at her, and she returned it, the gesture lighting her face. "May I join you?"

Ilona slid forward down the branch, seated like she was riding a horse sidesaddle, making room for him behind her. Her legs swung free beneath her, bare feet pale in the faint light. "Of course." She moved with uncanny grace and balance on the bough, entirely at home amid the sighing leaves.

Solas pulled himself into the space she had vacated, relaxing against the still-warm trunk of the tree and surprising himself with how comfortable he felt. He hadn't climbed many trees in his time, but the content in her eyes had made him want to join her, to add another memory to the ones he hoarded away.

She settled herself almost tentatively against him, her head on his chest, and relaxed when he looped his hands around her waist and held her. Sighing, he could hear her smiling as she spoke. "Much better…"

He nodded against her hair, drawing her closer and peering up through the leaves at the stars, her guardians for so many nights. "Tell me about the stars." For all his knowledge of the Fade, he knew little about the night sky. For once, he was the student, eager to learn.

"I am the wise one, for once." A little laugh accompanied the sentence, the sound making his heart skip. She took one of his hands and laced her fingers through his, releasing a breath as her laugh ended. "What do you want to know?"

There was an eagerness in her voice he had not previously heard, a desire to talk about something she held dear. He leaned closer to her, trying to match the spot in the sky she was regarding. Eventually he returned to his original spot and shrugged lightly. "Anything. Whatever you wish to tell me."

"Constellations, then. They're my favorite." Her voice grew soft, whispery, as though the stories of the constellations were a deep secret unknown to all but a few. She used her free hand to point to a patch of stars directly above them, visible through the leaves. Her finger traced the outline, the stars forming a sword as she completed the rotation and started again, trailing up and down the blade. "Judex. Though the humans prefer to call it the Sword of Mercy, after the blade used to kill that prophet Andraste." Her tracing stopped, hand falling back to rest against his. "The stars were assigned the sword symbol long before Andraste's time, however. The ancient Tevinter Imperium used Judex as an idea of justice; that it faces down indicates a guilty verdict. Which, knowing Tevinter, meant heads would roll."

Solas allowed himself a small smile. "No one much uses that interpretation anymore, one imagines."

Ilona laughed softly, shaking her head against his chest. "No they don't. Not with it so similar to the symbol the Templars wear."

Her hand moved again, pointing east to a smaller group of stars, closer together. Tracing this constellation, her finger rotated in circles, one small and one larger, until Solas saw the outlines of a sun. "Solium, though more commonly known as simply The Sun. Solium has two stories, neither confirmed to be true. The first is that it represents ancient peoples', such as the Neromanians', fascination with all things in the sky. The other is that it is a representation of Elgar'nan." She shrugged slightly, the movement rustling fabric. "Both are equally possible."

He tilted his head before she chose a new constellation, stopping her. "Why is there speculation?"

"Many of the constellations are torn between the elven pantheon and the ancient peoples. No scholar has ever been able to confirm which is true or which came first. There are many varying interpretations for both sides." She angled her head to see him better, flecks of starlight in her eyes. "It reaches a point where it's simply what you choose to believe."

Solas nodded, accepting her words. "And what do you believe?"

"I believe both, honestly. They were equally important to two very different groups of people, holding prayers and protection just by appearing in the sky. You can't claim one is wrong when it meant so much to so many."

She was so accepting, refusing to put down the beliefs of another culture because they conflicted with her own. Solas shook his head, smiling. She saw far too much good in the world, no matter how far a poisoned past ran. Perhaps it was due to the things she had done herself that made her this way. If she didn't believe there was good somewhere, she could be prone to fall.

He pushed the rising guilt away and let it fade, returning his focus to her and nodding again. "You've thought about that before, haven't you?"

She smiled, still turned to face him. "I had a lot of time to do so." And without further explanation, she returned her gaze to the stars. She had yet to explain why they meant so much to her, as she had yet to explain so many things. But Solas did not pry; he had his secrets as well. Each sat with their faces they wished to show, and for the moment, it was enough.

Locating another, she gave a little gasp, directing her finger west now, higher in the sky than Solium. This constellation was larger, more detailed, but it took shape easily in front of him. Her finger traced ears, a nose, a tail, and a muscled body that formed smoothly into the outline of a wolf. His breath hitched in his throat. The elven pantheon…

"Fenrir." She delivered the word softly, as though awed by the constellation's presence. "I haven't seen him for many nights." _Him_ , like the constellation was a real, living animal, one she knew and had missed. Solas waited for her to continue, to explain. "I always liked Fenrir." The sentence appeared to be a thought spoken aloud, and he tipped his head closer to her.

"Why?"

"Because every other constellation never vanishes like he does. It's like the stars refuse to shine on certain nights. He's inconstant and rare, which befits his name." Her thumb began circling against the back of his hand, gentle, slow movements. "Fenrir is also rare because there is no mention of special wolves in ancient folklore, at all. Scholars believe he belongs solely to the pantheon, for Fen'Harel."

The name again. Lies, bitter and harsh, coated his tongue as he glared at the wolf in the sky, immortalized in starlight for all he had done. Though his face remained calm, the cruelty of fate sawed at his insides. Was there no end to how close she was to knowing? How often she toed the line of his truths?

Her thoughts were unfinished, however, because she continued. "Though I don't understand why the ancient elves would devote a constellation to a god they claim to fear." Solas was unsure, as well. He was aware of the statues, the occasional shrine, built by those he had freed. But the _stars?_ The stars were news to him. And with so much of the truth lost to story and song, he was amazed its memory had even survived.

"Perhaps there is another story, lost to time, that offers an explanation." He wasn't sure why he tried to comfort her; she would enjoy wondering. And it had been a dangerous thing to say, given her perceptiveness. He closed his eyes.

"…Perhaps. I would love to hear it, if it exists. But until then, Fenrir is a nice mystery. Something to think about." She turned to look at him again, rising from her position against his chest, and he could almost feel the gears turning in her head.

He knew the story. The truth, all of it, would be so easy to tell her. But he shoved the thought down, burying it under sacrifices and lies, tucked deep in the shadows of what was once his conscience. She stared at him a moment longer, head tilted, eyes speaking silent questions.

Then the thoughtfulness faded, replaced with a faint smile. "Well, I hope I taught you something, for a change. I hope you enjoyed learning."

Content to let the matter of the wolf drop, he returned the gesture, cupping her face in his hand and drawing her closer to him. "Always, _vhenan._ I treasure it all." Which was the truth.

Ilona blinked, eyes bright and flecked with stars. Leaning forward, she kissed him, softly and lightly. Like a breath, like a butterfly. Then she slid down from the branch, making no sound as she landed on the soft grass of the garden. "There may be others, tomorrow, if you'd like to join me again." Her voice was warm, a smile tugging the corners of her lips.

"I would enjoy that." The peace, the quiet, the sound of her voice as she wove the stars' history. The more time he spent with her, the less of the world he understood.

Ilona tucked a few strands of hair behind her ears, revealing the nick in her left one once again. Perhaps, as time progressed, he would finally hear that story, that part of her history. "I'm glad. Good night, Solas."

" _Dareth shiral."_ The words earned him another faint smile before she turned and left the garden, the smell of lilacs hanging in the air where she'd disappeared. He remained in the tree, listening to the sighing of the wind through the leaves, before returning his gaze to the sky and the wolf it contained. Silence greeted his gaze, the stars cold and unforgiving. Irony pulled a smile to his lips.

 _"I always liked Fenrir."_


	8. Rainwater

"…I think we're lost." Ilona's fingers wiggled at her sides as she squinted into the trees, covered in the sheets of rain currently falling from the sky. Having stopped beneath the sprawling branches of an oak, she scanned the expanse before them. What had started as an innocent walk through the trees had quickly turned disastrous with the arrival of an unforeseen rainstorm. Solas watched her watch the leaves, flattened against the trunks in the onslaught from the heavens. She turned to him after a moment, her eyes wide, lips set in the curls of a frown. "Everything looks the same."

Rain splattered from the leaves above them onto the ground, onto his shoulders, his head, his ears, sending pinpricks of cold coiling down his limbs. Still, he had to smile faintly at the exasperation on her face. It was an entirely new side to her, this frustration, and it was… endearing. "I'm afraid that this is not my area of expertise…" He waved a hand to the landscape, encompassing the impressive oak trees and the thin stalks of elfroot. This was her world—a part of her always remained in the forest, even when the stone walls of Skyhold kept her contained on the mountainside. He'd seen the pieces of her heart she left in the trees.

"…I know. It's mine. And I… I am lost." Ilona tucked a rain-soaked strand of hair behind one of her ears, resulting in a few free droplets snaking down her neck and coating her collar. A shiver ran the length of her body, causing her slender frame to nearly vibrate momentarily. She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her hands up and down to begin some modicum of warmth. Her gaze turned to the clouds, lidded against the droplets that soon clung to her lashes and her cheeks. "Rain erases everything. A clean slate; no memories or landmarks or little reminders of where you are or where you're going. It's all of a sudden new. Like _that._ " One of her hands moved free to snap her fingers together, the sound muffled by the downpour. Two raindrops split from her fingertips with the motion.

Solas simply nodded at the introspective statement. Watching her think fascinated him every time. She was never still; her eyes scanned the sky, the grass, the trees. Her hands moved when she talked, when she fought, when she laughed. But when she thought, that wrinkle between her eyebrows formed, and her eyes clouded with thoughtfulness, and her hands… stopped. It was the only time she was ever entirely still. Lost to her questions, her ideas, the world around her became less important.

Her moment broken by the sound of her snap, she lowered her head back to meet his gaze and shook water from her hair. Solas glanced around the area, finding that he too recognized nothing. Not that he had been entirely focused on the surrounding forest while they had been walking. He raised a hand to collect a few droplets in his palm. "One of the many reasons we need it. If even nature could not start over, hope for renewal would be slim to none for all others."

Ilona smiled—a real smile, one of those rare few seen only by him—as though his understanding of her thoughts was the single most important thing. "Absolutely. Cold as I am, I do understand the rain." Another shiver ran down her body, and she gave her head a firm shake. "Unfortunately, understanding does not bring us any closer to finding the camp." She sighed audibly, frustration and sadness lacing the sound as it drifted between the droplets. "I'm sorry."

Solas chuckled softly, taking her gently by the arm and drawing her against him. "You did not cause the downpour. I see no reason to warrant apology."

She tucked her head into his shoulder, sliding her hands beneath the fur of his coat and lacing them together against his back. "We'll only continue to walk in circles if we keep moving… Waiting it out is logically our safest path." Her shaking subsided, if only slightly, though the rain continued to fall over her hair and her shoulders.

Her skin was like ice, but he did not flinch at the touch, instead pulling her closer to offer what comfort he could. The time alone with her was rare, a quickly dwindling treasure, and despite the weather, he smiled into her hair. She still smelled of crisp air and lilacs beneath the rainwater.

"You're warm." She mumbled the words into his coat; he nearly didn't realize she was speaking over the cacophony of droplets and the angle at which she stood. He _hmm_ ed softly, tipping his head.

"Am I? Perhaps you are stealing all of it." He felt her shoulders shake briefly with silent laughter before her head lifted to search his face with those eyes.

"You should have considered that before you offered to share." The gold in her eyes glowed prominently against the dreary backdrop. "I am entirely content right here."

Dropping his forehead to rest against hers, Solas vowed to remember how this felt. Her. Dripping and smiling and _beautiful_ , her eyes filled with an honest depth and warmth. All for him. Because she believed in him. Because she trusted him. The guilt threatened to darken the memory, the truth hovering on the tip of his tongue. It went unsaid, swallowed back to the shadows of the past. He couldn't do that to her. Not now. Instead, he closed his eyes and offered her as much of the truth as was possible. The words ached as they passed his lips.

"As am I, _vhenan._ " He lowered his head to kiss her, wrapping his arms around her waist. Her hands tightened underneath the fabric, coming untangled to hold him instead. A moment of warmth amid the rain's chilled torrent. There was only now, and there was only her. He trailed his lips the length of the scar on her jawline, eliciting another little shiver. He smiled as he returned them to hers, holding her as the rain continued pattering out a rhythm against their joined forms.

She seemed to sink into him, deeper, closer. The chill in the air faded, her palms growing warm against his back. Feeling wove its way back into his body, reaching the tips of his ears. Whatever regret he had left over the decision to tie her to him, even briefly, evaporated in the rain and the warmth. She was here, she was real, and he… he _needed_ her. The realization struck him over the millennia since he had last held a care for anything. His hands tightened around her.

With a soft breath, she pulled away, keeping her forehead against his. Her eyes were bright, blue and gold swimming with emotion and light. Rainwater still clung to her hair, pressing raven strands to her cheeks and neck. She glowed with life, her spirit bright and whole behind her eyes. Her hands relaxed, locking together once more, but remained inside his coat, safe from the cold needles of rain. "Renewal." Slowly, her lips lifted in the smallest smile. "I have a new appreciation for the rain."

Those eyes appeared to see through him, all of him clear beneath her gaze. Her words whirled through the air, the truth and her trust ringing in each syllable. He returned the faint smile, blinking once to clear his thoughts. "We both do, it appears. An entirely new meaning. For once, it provides memories instead of stealing them."

Ilona smiled and kissed him again, softer, gentler, freeing her hands from his coat to rest against his chest. They didn't need words, for once. They understood each other, for this moment, at least. Solas became aware of his heartbeat, elevated, light. He believed she could feel it beneath her fingers, and he felt, for the first time in memory, accepting of his heart in someone else's hand. It belonged to her; it had for a long time. He savored the feeling, the security. Savored _her_.

The rain had lessened when he broke the kiss, lifting her hands to cup in his own. She turned her gaze to the clouds again, squinting in the parting wisps as the storm dissipated as quickly as it had arrived. "I should be able to determine where we are now." Flicking her wrists, the droplets clinging to her hands evaporated in tiny puffs of smoke.

"Lead the way." He stood behind her, waiting as she oriented herself to their location amid the trees. Her hand slid into his as if she hadn't been thinking about it, as if it had been there for years. With a faint smile, she did lead, gently pulling him around trees and over roots back the way they had come.

When the peaks of the tents were at last visible once again, she sighed with relief. "I was afraid I had gotten us seriously lost…" Solas ended her sentence by giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. She tucked her hair behind her ears and smiled sheepishly.

"I had complete faith in you. Besides… there were certain… enjoyable aspects to being lost, for once." He was no longer surprised at the stutter his heart performed when she laughed softly and pressed her face into his shoulder. He had accepted fate's cruel twist, painful as it would soon be.

She nodded against him, the movement tangling some of her hair into small, delicate knots. Her hand slid back into his coat, a sigh of what almost sounded like exasperation escaping her now. "You're still warm." She curled into the crook of his arm, tucked against his side.

He wrapped his hand around her waist, smiling faintly. "So it would appear." They stood like that for a few heartbeats, watching the first curls of a fire drift from over the line of tents.

Knowing their absence would raise questions, he took a step in the direction of the smoke. But her hand tightened, stopping him. Keeping him in place next to her. Her voice reached him, soft and muffled by fabric. "Not yet. Just… wait. For a little longer."

He nodded, understanding her reluctance, the weight of his own mask increased by rainwater and renewal. Pressing his lips into her hair, he closed his eyes against the looming return and the responsibilities. "As long as you desire." They hovered on the edge of the circle, waiting. Waiting for just a moment more before they had to resume their roles.

Solas knew how it would end. The mask would fall back over her face, hiding the mirth and the smiles that he so cherished. Her voice would return to its soft, gentle form, reassuring and quiet, not assertive. Inquisitor Ilona was a different elf to the one that stood beside him now, head against his shoulder, rainwater dripping from her hair. The real her, honest and light and free, was contained in that persona of power, the illustrious Herald of Andraste. Trapped.

But they had a few more moments, so they lingered, neither moving. And when she pursed her lips and straightened, lifting her head and freeing her hand, he let her go. The scouts swarmed her, a healer rushing forward to fret over her damp clothes and tangled hair. Ilona listened to the worries thrown at her feet, allowed the prodding of the healer as he drilled her with questions. She didn't flinch once, her head level and high. Each question she answered fluidly, without fuss.

Solas marveled at her control, at her composure toward those so blind. But she simply nodded, face serene. The healer escorted her away to a tent to rest, he presumed, and the others gathered soon forgot the event had even happened, returning to their previous tasks with a chopped efficiency. He waited until they had dispersed completely before slipping into camp himself, blissfully unseen and ignored. No one bothered to search for him; they had the Herald. What was one more elf in comparison to her?

He retired to his own tent and located a set of dry clothes, spreading the damp ones out on the ground. The tent fabric, staked securely into the grass, had prevented any of the downpour from snaking into the tent. Once dry, he dropped the jawbone back around his neck and retrieved his staff from where it reclined against the bedroll. Despite its dampness, he donned his coat, sliding his arms into the sleeves and catching the faintest hint of lilacs.

His entire body hummed with her touch, her words. Everything she had so willingly given to him, reaching a peak as she sought him for warmth and comfort. He ducked out of the tent back into camp, catching sight of her engrossed in conversation with Bull. Her hands moved animatedly as she spoke, encompassing the trees and the campfire as they curled and danced around her.

Her hair had been re-braided, falling down her back in a raven waterfall. She too had located dry robes, the fabric pooling around her and pinned into place to allow her to move. One of her sleeves hung a bit loose, rippling with her hands. Bull had both of his hands on his hips, having to crane his neck down almost perpendicular to his chest to see her properly. Those in her Inner Circle also were graced with the real Ilona, though less frequently. Bull started to shake his head, and her gaze found Solas' as she pointedly ignored the Qunari.

A real smile found a home on her lips, her eyes remaining locked with his. The pain of his lies reached him again as he once more realized just how far he'd allowed this to go… and how little he currently cared. For a moment, he could be content. Content with the light in her eyes and the scent of mountain air and lilacs. And when the moment passed, because it would, he knew, he could have the memories.

Because every movement, every blink, every breath was seared into him, tucked like a grand secret into the corners of his heart. Because it would not last.

Because eventually, he would lose her.


	9. Remember

**A/N:** "Fictional characters are like geodes. To see how truly beautiful they are, you have to _break_ them." And this was only the start. Enjoy!

* * *

It was dark when they returned to Skyhold. Solas was grateful for the torches lining the gates and the several the troops held aloft. Ilona had refused to camp in the Fallow Mire, refused to remain in that place a moment longer. Solas had never seen her so shaken.

He had also never seen her so _furious._ She had eliminated the challenging Avvar with a cold efficiency—her fire had glowed blue with heat, as had her lightning. The color change had been the only indication of the rage boiling beneath her veins. Solas suspected he wasn't the sole companion who had noticed, but she had not spoken to anyone since the corpse of the Hand of Korth had laid at her feet.

The fury in her eyes then had been almost primal, an uncontained thing lined with shards of pain. And when the battle had ended, only the pain remained. It had taken many soft words of negotiation from Blackwall for Ilona to grudgingly accept Sky Watcher's help for the Inquisition, and then she had fallen silent. Painfully, eerily silent.

Returning to Skyhold, now, she was no more vocal. Even when Cassandra ran down the stairs of the fortress to greet the returning party, carrying a torch of her own. "Did you succeed, Inquisitor?"

Ilona still had the blood of the Avvar leader on her hands, her arms, her torso, and it gleamed ruby in the torchlight. She offered the Seeker nothing beyond a single, sharp nod. Solas ached to comfort her, understand her silence, but he didn't move from his place slightly to her left. The surrounding soldiers began dispersing, fading back to their barracks and taking those they had rescued to the medical wing to be treated. The light grew dimmer as they left.

"Returning in the dark was dangerous." Cassandra didn't say it like an accusation, but Ilona winced slightly, all the same. Her hands rose to grip her shoulders, and a tremor ran the length of her body. She looked suddenly very, very small. Solas silenced the urge to hold her.

"I… I know. But I couldn't… stay there. I… couldn't." Her voice wavered in a way he'd never heard before. One of Cassandra's eyebrows arched slightly, but she clearly thought better of prying. A fact for which Solas was silently thankful.

"Very well, Inquisitor. As long as everyone made it back safely. I'll leave you to get cleaned up." She turned on a heel and vanished back to the fortress, leaving the two of them alone under the weak moonlight. A long breath passed Ilona's lips, shaking slightly.

"…Good night, Solas." She moved to walk away, but he extended a hand and caught her. Slowly, gently, he drew her to him, the moonlight lining her hair with silver. She did not resist, instead burying her face in his shoulder.

He was unsure what to tell her, blind to the reasons behind her silence and her shaking. The only thing he was certain of was that he would give anything to never see that kind of pain in her gaze again. Ironic though it was, considering what he was doing to her.

She remained there for a moment, until her breathing slowed and she lifted her head. He was glad he had kept silent. "Thank you." Then she detached herself from his hold and began walking back to the fortress, to her chambers, igniting her palm with twitching flames to see by.

Solas used the moonlight to make his own way back to his bed, the events of the past days flickering through his mind. Something, regarding the Avvar, had wounded her in the past. A fight, perhaps? A combat she had lost? Negotiations gone south, relating to losing something? Or someone?

He had never seen her attack or kill a single soul without some semblance of regret. She always believed in the inherent good in people, that they had the ability to change given the chance. Yet this Avvar… there had been no remorse in her eyes as she had scorched and shocked him. She had simply looked… hollow.

It had been unnerving; her normally serene and peaceful face gone completely empty, completely blank. She had not been, in that moment, the woman he had come to care for. And the possibility of losing her to that darkness again terrified him.

Solas was unsure how long he sat on the edge of his bed and contemplated her pain and her silence. Too long. Eventually he could no longer think clearly for fatigue, and stretched out to allow sleep to claim him.

He had been in control of his dreams for millennia beyond counting. They were his realm, where he discovered and learned and understood. Tonight, however… he was not in control. He found himself in a forest, without knowing how or why he had arrived there. What kind of magic was powerful enough to influence _him_ in the Fade?

Noticing the faint glow of a fire, he began walking toward it, confused and faintly angry, but seeing no way out and no other alternative. His questions were answered upon reaching the clearing where a bright campfire was burning. A young elf, with gold ringed sapphire eyes and raven hair, sat cross-legged at the edge of a half-circle of other Dalish. The light danced over her soft face and highlighted her _vallaslin._

Ilona.

This wasn't the Fade at all, or not the realm itself. This was her; her memories, or her dreams. She had allowed him in. There was no other explanation. One could not walk in the dreams of others unless it was desired by the dreamer. She must have known the memories—whatever they were—would haunt her tonight. And she had been able to tell he was curious… so she was showing him.

She _trusted him enough_ to show him. The notion tugged on the ends of his heart. Giving his head a shake, he pushed the rising guilt to a corner of his mind and regarded the scene unfolding before him.

Her younger self was unscarred, her left ear whole, and her eyes were bright with joy and contentment. This young woman had not seen war; she had not seen hardship. She sat at peace with her clan and swayed to the rhythm of a _hahren_ 's story.

Solas stood at the back of the circle, listening to the lilt of the _hahren_ 's voice, his eyes on Ilona. Invisible to all of her memory-fueled clan, he was nothing more than a shadow amid the trees. Another elf appeared from the forest, sneaking to the circle and dropping next to her with mischief in his eyes. Ilona turned to him, her eyebrows pulled down in that faintly disappointed way of hers. Exactly the same, even so many years ago.

The other elf elbowed her in the ribs. "Don't look at me like that!"

She rolled her eyes, something he had never seen her do before. Another reminder that she had been unburdened, once. Free and light and with only the cares of a youth to worry about. Not the weight of the world. She knocked her shoulder against her companion's. "You're _late._ I'll look at you however I please." Returning her gaze to the _hahren,_ she lowered her voice. "What were you even doing?"

"Scouting. I'm not entirely sure we're safe camping here." The other elf's voice was ringed with uncertainty; the mischief vanished. Ilona turned to face him again.

"…I feel the same way. Something about it…" She ran a quick hand over her arm, as though she had chills. "Did you see anything?" Her eyes no longer held disappointment.

But the elf shook his head. "No. It's all quiet. Well, as quiet as the Graves ever are. Maybe we're paranoid."

She sighed, a tiny sound that was rather exasperated for how small it was. "Maybe we are. The Keeper won't want to move anyway, even with two of us concerned."

There it was; the first hints of danger. Solas got the feeling the peaceful scene was about to take a turn for the worse. Knowing that she was about to experience pain and he could do nothing to prevent it almost physically ached.

The story had ended; elves were rising to retire for the night. Three scouts slunk off to keep watch. Ilona's companion stood, offering her his hand. She took it, and the two of them said their good nights. Solas followed her as far as her tent, positioning himself slightly to the side of the entrance, and waited. A faint humming emanated from within; a tune he did not recognize. Then silence reigned as she presumably fell asleep.

Peace and quiet fell over the camp as her clan ducked into tents and let the silence prevail. It was too peaceful; it set Solas on edge. He suspected Ilona and her friend had been right. And he suspected the guilt weighed on her now, for not acting on it.

Time passed. Minutes, hours, he wasn't sure. Time was always strange in the Fade. Then, two _thuds._ A shout, silenced by an arrow or a dagger, then a third fall. The scouts were dead. All of Solas tensed. No. But he could do nothing to stop it.

Avvar warriors and rogues arrived in a swathe of white and black war paint, bleeding over the hills and sliding from the trees with uncanny stealth for a tribe so large. Everything erupted into screams of terror and rivers of blood. They burned tents, driving terrified elves into the center of camp to be cut down, defenseless.

An unprovoked attack, for no reason at all. Had they been too close to the border of Avvar territory? Had there been a past event that had caused this? He did not know. All he knew was that _this_ was the reason Ilona had gone hollow.

Her younger self emerged from the tent then, panicked, her staff clutched in her hand. So she _had_ used a staff at one point. Something had made her not need it any longer. Solas followed her as she raced through the attacking Avvar, going mostly unnoticed by the charging warriors. Shock and fear danced in her eyes, and she screamed names in a panic. "Borean? Keeper? Please…" She coughed into the rising smoke from one of the tents, and located her companion. His eyes stared unseeing at the sky, a wicked wound pooling blood from his chest.

Ilona stopped, one hand over her mouth, and choked a sob into her palm. "Oh, Borean… no. We… we were right. We should have told someone…"

Solas grieved for her, but he knew she shouldn't stop. Not with the chaos unfolding around her. He noticed elves fleeing into the forest, only to fall to unseen archers or twirling blades. Others attempted to fight back, but they had been caught unawares and were no match for the stoic, solemn faced warriors that had shattered their quiet night.

None of them were going to survive. The knowledge of it hit him like a blow to the chest.

She had a _right_ to be hollow, a right to be unsympathetic. It was no less than the Avvar deserved.

There was a ring of blades behind her that Solas wished he could warn her about. The Avvar rogue advanced on her with a twirling grace, and she spun with barely enough time to block it, the steel colliding with her staff echoing hollowly. Her eyes were bright with pain. "Why are you doing this?"

But Solas knew the Avvar were not one for words, even with as little as he knew about them. The rogue narrowed her eyes, but offered no reply, instead expertly shifting her daggers and tossing Ilona's staff from her hands. In the same movement, the Avvar drew one of the blades across her stomach, sinking the elf to the ground next to her companion.

Solas' breath hitched in his throat, even knowing she survived. It tore his heart to watch her bleed on the ground, helpless. He wished again that he could offer some comfort, but he was trapped as an observer, watching her once peaceful world fall apart.

Breathing shallowly, she raised one of her hands to her stomach, pressing her palm into the wound. Solas was unsure how she was still alive with a slice like that. Another of her mysteries. She began murmuring furiously, and her hand flickered weakly with Spirit magic. She could heal? He had never known her to have the ability, so adept she was with Inferno and Storm.

Another thing he had learned.

Clearly, her skill in healing did not compare to her skill with combat, for her attempt to seal her wound succeeded only in stopping the bleeding, and to Solas' trained eye it would not last long. Instead of moving, she dropped her now bloodied hand from her waist and closed her eyes, pressing her face into the earth. It took him a moment to realize what she was doing. Playing dead.

It seemed to be how she had survived. As her clan fell around her, she waited, through the screams of the dying and the smoke and the flames. She waited even through the Avvar, their attack successful, looting and pillaging what remained of the camp, taking food and any still functioning weapons, including her staff. Then the entire tribe vanished as quickly as it had arrived, leaving, or so they believed, not a soul still alive behind them.

Ilona turned her face deeper into the dirt and sobbed.

He longed to soothe her, dry her tears. Helplessness was never a feeling that settled well with Solas. It twisted his insides now as he watched the only one he cared about break, shatter in her innocence and her youth. She was unscarred no longer, shown the cruelty of the world first hand in a swathe of destruction. He wondered, not for the first time, how she possibly saw so much good in this world. The question slammed against him now as he watched her pull herself to her feet, slowly, mindful of the potentially fatal slash across her stomach.

She shuffled through the camp, softly calling out names, searching desperately for survivors. No replies answered her. Until, that is, she came to the edge of the camp, where her Keeper lay splayed in protection over a group of children. None of them still lived.

The elf opened his eyes, blinking weakly. _"Da'len?"_ The word slid past his lips, a whisper. She fell at his side, her tears returning.

"Keeper!" She used the hand not holding her wound to take his, clutching it like a lifeline. His lips lifted in the smallest of smiles, relief dancing in his eyes.

"You're alive." The words were soft. He was not long for this world, and it hurt Solas to see the hope in her eyes.

"And so are you…" She was desperate not to be alone. He heard it in her voice.

Her Keeper shook his head. "No, _da'len,_ I am gone already. It will not be long." Freeing his hand, he pried the ring from his finger and pressed it into her palm. The small actions took effort; Solas saw the pain it caused him. But he curled Ilona's fingers over the ring and pushed the hand toward her. "You are all I have left to protect, Ilona. Take it… and live."

The ring. That ring hung on a leather cord around her neck now, always close to her heart. The story behind it, at last, though it was a story stained with blood and steeped in loss. Ilona cried again as her Keeper faded, his hand falling limp from hers. "I will, Keeper… I promise."

Then she stood, clearly forcing herself to move despite the wound and the tears. She brought the ring to her lips and began praying as she walked.

She prayed to Falon'Din, to carry her clan safely to the Beyond.

She prayed to Sylaise, for warmth and healing.

She prayed to Mythal, for protection and guidance.

…and she prayed to Fen'Harel. Not for her, not for her clan, but for the Avvar.

Solas blinked and stopped following her. A conversation held what felt like ages ago flashed in his mind. _"I did pray to Fen'Harel… once. He didn't listen."_ This was what she had meant. She had, in a moment of grief, desired suffering upon this tribe of Avvar. The revelation drove a spike into his conscience. Her words still carried to him, even as she reached the tree line and began to fade. The dream itself began to fray at the edges, but the prayer echoed.

"May the Dread Wolf haunt you always."

And now he knew. He blinked awake in the darkness of his room, letting the knowledge sink in. What she had endured… it would have broken anyone lesser. The first blow the world had made her suffer, and she had endured. He marveled at her strength, for one so young. She'd just witnessed the slaughter of her clan, for reasons likely never revealed.

Her pain and her loss lingered in the air, in the remnants of the Fade still retreating from his mind. Making a decision, he stood and exited the room, weaving his way through the fortress to her chambers. She should not be alone.

Not after reliving that.

Solas arrived at the door to her chambers, the candle he had brought casting weak shadows on the walls and the floor. He lifted a hand and knocked lightly, believing she'd be awake. After a moment, a gentle, quiet "Come in" drifted to his ears.

The door creaked upon opening, and he closed it behind him with the memories of the dream assaulting his mind. Each stair brought her closer, would allow him to finally help chase away the pain. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, he found her still in the bed, her hair unbound and face lined with tears.

Her Keeper's ring was visible on the end of the cord around her neck, resting against her pillow. Slowly, she met his gaze, and her eyes were full with past losses and all she had witnessed. Solas could see the fires from the camp burning there, remembered and mourned. He did not move, waiting for her to speak, much as he could have and wanted to.

"Hello, Solas." Her voice reflected her eyes, cracked and grieving and echoing with the tears clinging to her cheeks. He walked to her, then, setting the candle on a table near her and sitting on the edge of the bed. She reached across the mattress and took his hand, entwining her fingers through his.

 _"Ir abelas, ma vhenan."_ Though words were not enough, he knew. Not for the injustice done to her all those years ago, the mindless death and the loss. He brought the back of her hand to his lips.

The ghost of a smile punctured the tears, but it didn't last. " _Ma serannas."_ A sigh escaped her, and she closed her eyes briefly, still holding on to him. "I'm glad you came." The gratitude in the words reached his soul.

He traced slow circles over the back of her hand, thumb running over the small scars that decorated her otherwise flawless skin. "I did not wish you to be alone." The thought had hurt, knowing that she had once endured the very real pain alone, years ago. With something he could do to change that, he had taken the opportunity.

She sighed again, though the sound was much more content than the first had been, and her eyes fluttered closed. What he had witnessed hovered in the air, but if she did not want to discuss it, he would allow her the peace. Her trust in showing him, for now, was enough. A layered silence stretched between them, though it was gentle. Solas waited until she slept, then moved to stand.

Her fingers tightened around his, stopping him. He dropped his gaze back to her, surprised, so certain she had fallen asleep. Sapphires flickered in the candlelight. "…Don't go."

It was almost a plea. Solas regarded her in the shadows, her hand in his like a lifeline. Another line, another step deeper into her trust. Any other night, he might have refused. But her eyes were still lined with memories, and he could not, painlessly, leave her like this.

He allowed their joined hands to guide him to the bed, lifting the covers to tuck himself next to her. She shifted to rest her head against his chest, and he slid his free arm around her shoulders, continuing to trace small circles into her skin. Their intertwined fingers fell onto his stomach, never released.

It was… wonderful. Just to hold her, soothe her, listen to her soft breaths as she relaxed into him. Solas had never felt so completely at peace in… years. Words were still insufficient, so he allowed the silence to stretch, simply savoring this closeness.

Then the hand not entwined with his began moving—it took him a moment to realize she had lifted the cord with the ring over her head and was twirling the wooden object between her fingers. He waited for her to speak, seeing the intention in her pursed lips.

"I was transferred from the Lavellan clan to the Maranelle clan when I was nine. Our Keeper already had a First, while Maranelle was in need of one. It worked well, and I made new friends easily enough. And then…" Her explanation faded, stolen by the silence and what they had both experienced. Solas pulled her closer, wanting nothing more than to drive the loss from her voice. "This was… I knew this was going to happen. I… wanted you to know." She sighed against his chest, still rotating the ring. "It's been so long, I thought I was ready to face them again." A hollow laugh that echoed through him. "I was wrong."

Untangling her fingers from hers, he ran a finger down the engraved surface. "Often there are buried memories that we are never ready to face. I am… honored you wanted to share it with me." Honored was not the correct word, but there were not words enough to describe how her trust made him ache.

Her eyes met his, bright and so very blue in the weak light. A small smile danced over her lips before she returned her cheek to his chest. The ring, she pressed into his hand, a silent invitation for questions if there ever was one.

Solas lifted the ring and examined it, curiosity winning over as he spun the engravings in the candlelight. It was a work of art in such a small object, swirling lines formed animals and people—their delicate ears labeling them as Elven. He marveled at the craftsmanship; whoever had carved it possessed talent and skill beyond measure.

"What does it depict?" The varying images clearly formed a story of some kind, though he had never been able to examine a Keeper's ring in any detail. For good reason.

Ilona's voice whispered against him, her palm now resting on his chest, over his heart. "The betrayal of Fen'Harel. Every Keeper has one, to remind them of their duty to protect the clan from the Dread Wolf."

Solas almost dropped the ring. Her Keeper's dying words echoed through his head. _"You are all I have left to protect, Ilona."_ If her Keeper could see her now… How many times would she come so close? The frequency baffled him. Restraining his shock, he returned the ring to her, sliding the cord over her head until it rested back where it belonged.

"He succeeded. He protected them with all he had." He entwined her fingers through his again, knowing the statement lacked reassurance, but offering it anyway.

She nodded against him, holding his hand a bit tighter. "You're right, yes. For whatever small comfort that is." Her voice had grown softer, fatigue creeping into her words. He pressed his lips into her hair.

"…Words will never be enough, _vhenan._ I am unsure why I try."

She chuckled softly, though the sound wasn't entirely genuine. "Because you and words usually understand one another. Usually."

He joined her, feeling the melancholy weight in the room lift, just slightly. "Indeed." She shifted again, curling closer to him; her lashes fluttered from what he could see of her face.

"Thank you… for staying, Solas." The words were punctuated by a very tired sigh. Solas smiled in the shadows, faint and invisible to her.

"Always." The whispered word caused another final, tiny sigh to escape Ilona before her breaths became deeper, the sounds of sleep.

Solas turned his head to extinguish the candle, plunging the room into darkness save for a faint sliver of moonlight between the curtains. His own eyelids became heavy. Before sleep claimed him, he memorized the feel of her fingers entwined with his, the gratitude in her eyes and her voice, her trust.

Her Keeper should be terrified. She was not safe from the Dread Wolf.

Or what his selfishness would do to them both.


	10. Stumble

The sound of the torches crackling was the only thing that punctured the rotunda's stillness. Solas added the finishing touch to the most recent mural, taking a step back to observe his work. The stark outline of the magister glared back at him, ruby painted eyes just as malicious as the real ones. The attack on Haven was still painfully fresh in the minds of all who had survived, though months had passed. Solas knew he mourned for reasons far different than the others.

He mourned the loss of the orb, still, which had sat in the magister's palm, glowing a sickly crimson. He shook his head as he submerged his brush in the bucket of water he had collected, letting the paint bleed away in a soft cloud. Flicking the bristles through the air, crystal droplets caught the torchlight before spattering against the floor. Useless. He'd felt useless. Forced to flee with the rest of the Inquisition, because staying was suspicious. It would have raised far too many questions than he had the capacity to answer, no matter how desperately he wanted the orb out of the magister's hands.

Finishing this section of the mural, at last, dredged these thoughts to the surface. Placing the brush on his desk, he turned to face the rest of the mural, burying the inferiority and the faint rage. There were other things to consider these days. More pressing problems.

Like the demon army and the looming death of the most prominent figure in Orlais.

Solas nearly laughed at the desperate lengths the magister was going to in order to achieve success. Gathering support quietly, from the background, was one thing. But the act of destroying Haven, as well as revealing exactly how much power he possessed, was another entirely. At last, the knowledge of the magister's threat was not stuck in Solas' head alone. It drifted on the lips of all assembled beneath the Inquisition's banner, usually quickly hushed as though the mere mention of his name would once again bring the pain and the flames raining from the sky.

Both of the revelations were notions that required the Inquisitor's immediate attention, but she could not be in two places at once, despite how much power and influence she had gained over the course of these past months and weeks. She was growing into legend. Yet even as her stories and her supposed prowess expanded, she became ever brighter and realer to Solas.

He had crossed a line; he had accepted that. And though he had warned her, thrice, she still refused to let him spare her. His truths burned a line down his heart each time she smiled at him, but he had not tried any harder to separate himself. Selfish as it was, painful as it was, he was allowing himself this. This… peace. Until he had to break her, for her own sake.

Solas thought about that eventual shattering far too much. He could no longer return to a time before her, when her trust and sincerity did not haunt his waking hours. His fingers sank into the sanded wood of the desk. He didn't want to. Losing her might very well end him.

The remaining fragment of The Wolf, the elf that willingly tore a hole in the sky to restore the People, scoffed at the pain. But that part had rapidly dwindled, leaving Solas, alone with his guilt and his waiting loss. All because of her. With her soft words and genuine smile, she had changed the world around him, slowly but steadily, and he now stood in a land he no longer understood.

He hated not understanding. And for a moment, a brilliant, bright moment, he savored it. The anger. It cleared his head, setting him firmly back on the path he had vowed to walk. His hands relaxed their grip on the table, and he ensured the brush was dry before folding it away along with the others. Whatever happened at the end, whatever pain this caused both of them, he would shoulder it. He would take her anger, or her tears, or her flames, without complaint. He deserved every word she would hurl, but he could not betray the People. Not when they needed him.

If he didn't understand the world, he would change that. Solas would choose the People over Ilona, and a piece of his heart cracked at the thought. He let it fall; he had a larger purpose. And yet, just as he steeled his heart to his goal, the door opened with a familiar creak that preceded gentle footsteps. He was not facing the door, so he waited. Lilacs and mountain wind wreathed around him as a soft hand slid over his, a head falling onto his shoulder. "I knew you'd be awake."

Her voice and her presence melted the steel, breaking the clear moment of anger. He closed his eyes. She would be the end of him, without doubt. Everything about her… His heart grew whole once again, and he shifted his fingers to twine them with hers. "And I am not surprised you are, either." So be it. He would consider the consequences later.

As had become regularity, he collected the guilt and pushed it away, covered it with his half-truths and his complete lies, and turned to her. Let the color of her eyes take him. She lifted her head to meet his gaze and her eyes were full of… concern. Faint panic seized him. What had her so worried? Solas traced a single, slow circle over the back of her hand. "You look troubled, _vhenan._ Sleep eludes you?"

She sighed, breaking his gaze to regard the murals. Her eyes traced his brushstrokes with a thoughtfulness that ached. "Your paintings are beautiful." She dodged the question fluidly, resting her head back against his shoulder.

He squeezed her hand in thanks, though his voice remained serious. "Ilona…"

Silence. Was she afraid of something? Some enemy she had encountered haunting her? The list of possible reasons forming in his head was broken by her soft words. "You're going to think it foolish."

As if he would ever possibly think anything regarding her was foolish. That, at least, had been proven time and again by each of her actions. He used his free hand to gently tip her face up to see her eyes. "I would never."

Ilona blinked, once, twice. Then the ghost of a smile found a home on her lips. "…Josephine said I may have to… dance. At the Winter Palace." The smile faded, slowly. "And I don't know how."

Had it been anyone other than her, in her position, he _would_ have found it foolish to be concerned with something so trivial during a war. But she was the Inquisitor, the Herald, expected to be perfect in all areas. She was the beacon the people looked to now, in more ways than one. Should she make a fool of herself at the Palace… The Game was one you did not want to lose. It was very nearly a fate worse than death.

When he did not immediately respond, she looked at the ground, her chin still cupped in his hand. "I… didn't know who else to tell. Or, for that matter, to ask for help."

That trust again, the weight and the promises rising to taunt him. He smiled, ignoring the jeers, leaning to press his forehead against hers. "Dance lessons. I would have no other teach you, _vhenan._ It would be my pleasure."

A real smile lit her face, bringing the light back to her eyes and banishing the shadows of worry. "Could we start now? I need a reprieve from the report reading." She rose and pulled him to standing as well, still smiling. "I will never understand how Varric can read Hawke's handwriting."

Solas allowed himself a small chuckle, the atmosphere lifting as she adjusted the hem of her robes and dropped his hand. "Years of experience, one assumes." He moved to stand in front of her, attempting to recall the last time he had danced. Millennia ago, during happier times… Before.

He gave his head a quick shake as Ilona laughed softly, nodding. She fixed him with an expectant stare, and he quickly ran through the common Orlesian dances he remembered from time spent wandering the Fade. "The Orlesians dances are not all that complex, for they far prefer words and wine to action." Bowing slightly, he extended his hand to her, an offering weighted with torchlight. "You will understand without trouble at all."

Ilona took the offered hand with a smile, light dancing over her face. Solas raised her left hand to his shoulder and clasped her right one within his own, lengthening his shoulders. She nodded and did the same, the top of her head barely reaching his eyes. So many expectations on such small shoulders. He held her a bit closer, drawing another smile to her lips.

Slowly, he took a step toward her, sliding her foot with his own backwards. She accepted the motion, letting him guide her. Another step, still slow, still instructing. And another. "That is the common pattern. One, two, three." He repeated it, pivoting her in a small circle close to the desk. The fabric of her robe scraped against it. Her hand tightened in his as she concentrated before lifting her eyes.

"I think I understand. Not so hard." She closed her eyes as they moved again, the attempted memorization clear. Solas smirked, her gaze darkening with mock fear when she opened her eyes again.

"Now we move." He began leading her in a larger circle around the room, slowly at first. The slow steps she had mastered, the two of them moving in a perfect unison around his desk. When they came to the mural again, she turned her head to admire it once more, hand squeezing his lightly.

She appeared as though she had been dancing her entire life, moving with an easy grace molded by her style of combat and years in the trees. Her head fell against his chest, beneath his chin, and she sighed with what sounded like contentment. Still moving slowly, he wrapped his hand closer around her waist, tilting his head down to press his lips into her hair and commit the moment to memory.

"I knew you would be well suited to it." He smiled, and she nodded against him.

When she spoke, it was soft, as though she didn't want to interrupt the peace. A notion he understood all too well. "Less painful than I thought it was going to be." Her hand tightened, just briefly, on his shoulder, and her breath hitched. "The last time I tried to dance…"

"You do not have to discuss it." He knew the memory of that evening pained her, as it rightly should. And what they had done to her… he shook his head, forcing the rage down to a corner he had not dared open in a long time. She had stared to tremble slightly. "I am here, _vhenan._ " Though how insignificant that statement actually was bit into his heart like a dagger, accentuated by the gratitude in her gaze as it lifted to lock with his.

Her shaking stopped, the shadows of memory leaving her eyes. Maintaining the rhythm, she rose onto her toes to brush her lips against his, briefly, before returning to her original place and smiling. "I know."

Those two words send his heart crashing around his chest, lined with everything unsaid. Eager to distract her, and himself, he began to move faster, nodding slowly as her smile disappeared. The pace of the dances varied, so it benefited all to test each one at varying speeds. He could almost feel her concentration, see the faint wrinkle between her eyebrows as she ran through the steps in her head.

Soon enough, they were whirling around the room, a blur of dark robes and sapphires. New memories to soften the ones that hid in the corners of her eyes. Solas detached himself to spin her, rotating her in small, tight circles. A light laugh escaped her as she blurred, like a bell. Its own music to the silence they waltzed to. The sound anchored him, filled his heart, and seemed to free her.

He pulled her back against him, continuing to move, but she was dizzy. Her coordination was gone, steps unbalanced as she tried to regain the movements. He could feel her feet attempting to keep up, one of them tripping over his as she took a misstep. He knew where this would lead…With a faint, high cry, she fell, tripping forward to land against his chest. Their continued momentum knocked her into him with more force than expected, and he lost his balance as well. They fell to the stone floor in a flurry of gasps and fabric.

"Are you alright?" Honest concern laced the words, one of her hands finding his cheek from where she rested on his chest. A smile pulled at the corners of her lips, though she was clearly waiting for his answer before she let it free.

He closed his hands around her waist, leaning into her hand, breathless from the dance and the fall. "Never better." His head spun with an almost delirious feeling. Another memory to stow away… another tug on his heart that he shoved away as her smile widened and her shoulders began to shake.

"…I _tripped._ " Her laughter was silent, muffled by his shirt as she turned her face down and let the laughs take her. "I haven't… tripped… _in years._ " This wash of honest joy made him smile as well, savoring the sounds of her happiness.

"All the twirling did not help, I imagine." He let mirth slip into his voice. She shook her head.

"No, the twirling was _wonderful._ " The last of her laughs faded to a long sigh, her head against his heart. "All of it was."

She appeared in no hurry to move, so he rested his head against the cold floor and closed his eyes. "Entirely, _vhenan._ "

A content silence stretched between them, before a third voice drifted down from the rookery. _"No music. Just a smile and laughter and light. Weight lessened, freer, flying."_

Ilona sighed, even as Solas chuckled at Cole's words. He sure had impeccable timing. Without knowing whether Cole's speech was Ilona's thoughts or his own, he lifted his head and found her watching him. He took one of her hands, holding her there in the moment, those sapphires lacking any shadows at all.

"Thank you, Cole."


	11. Protector

**A/N:** I'm so sorry about the delay between this upload and the last. I edited and rewrote this chapter about six times, and I'm only now finally happy with it. Enjoy, and thanks again to all the reviewers and supporters!

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The camp was too quiet. Common sounds of morning drifted through the trees—tentative birdsong, rustling leaves, and the bubbling of the stream not six feet to his left—but there was no shuffling of feet. No ringing of steel or the priming of weapons. It was the kind of silence that boded very, very poorly.

It was a silence that was _wrong._ He stood outside his tent and listened, for any hints of the usual sounds the camp made upon awakening. But the returning quiet deafened him. The last time he had heard a silence like this…

He gave his head a single, firm shake to clear the memories. Now was most certainly not the time to reflect on that. Taking a long breath, he analyzed the camp. The fire appeared to have burned itself out, not been extinguished. The dirt around the campfire was churned, however; evidence of a struggle of some kind.

His heart seized in his chest. Only one of them felt more comfortable beneath the stars to sleep. Only one of them was valuable enough to warrant abduction in the dead of night.

Where was Ilona?

He crossed the camp to her tent, not bothering to announce his presence, shifting the fabric aside and peering into the gloom. Her bedroll was missing—taken outside last night when she slept under the sky as she always did—and the rest of the interior was perfectly untouched. But also… empty.

No.

Something akin to rage boiled inside him, an emotion he had not allowed himself to honestly tap into for millennia. They had _taken_ her. The only one who held any significance in this doomed, burning world.

The force of the emotion snapped the world around him into sharp-edged clarity. Everything he had put the both of them through, everything they had formed and whispered and shared, had so very easily disappeared. Like she was simply something to be carted away in the shadows; some kind of illustrious prize.

Not Ilona. Never. He would not allow the magister to take from him the only reason he still remained with the Inquisition. She had given her world meaning, proving to him that a land she existed in did have good to offer.

And now, she was gone.

But his anger alone would not help her. Forcing an icy calm against the fury, Solas walked back to the remains of the campfire. Blind rage solved nothing, as he had learned time and time again.

 _Someone_ had taken her; the churned earth and her missing bedroll attested to that. Yet none of them had woken to hear her. That, more than even the idea of her missing, fueled the anger. Why had none of them _heard_ her? He had never prided himself on being a light sleeper, but the idea that she had been wounded, bound, and stolen while he wandered the Fade forced shards into his heart. Desperately seeking an explanation, he allowed himself to reflect on the events of last night as he crouched near the tossed soil.

There had been no alcohol; they were on a mission. What else could have possibly… Then it struck him, crashing from the buried parts of his memory, battles thought insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Venatori mages, yesterday afternoon. Their magic had felt… twisted. Altered. And it had only been after they were dead that he had noticed it, like the slivers of the Fade that clung to their spells were scorched, tarnished.

These blind followers were altering forces they could never hope to comprehend. Had there been something _in_ the spells? Another layer; slow-acting, like a poison…

A curse leapt to his lips almost of its own accord, but he bit it back. Useless words. Taking a long breath, he delved into the well of his power, searching, seeking to determine if he was correct. The power was dimmer, weaker, more of a candle than a fire that flickered dully in his veins. Attempting to summon a spell merely caused his fingertips to tingle with cold.

Then the wave of dizziness struck him, causing him to sway on the spot. A bitter, chalky taste coated his tongue. He slammed his eyes closed and retreated from his power, returning outside his body unable to breathe.

Felandaris. The entire scene now reeked of it. Several calming breaths later, his head cleared, and he could stand. What the Venatori had done… he had seen Sylaise use it before. Lacing her spells with the capabilities of different herbs to increase their potential and effects.

To other mages, Felandaris crushed their spellpower to a shadow of its true potential, rendering them largely useless in a battle. Non-mages were overcome with fatigue and slept like the dead. However, the delicacy and patience required to perfect the art of lacing spells was possessed only by those with unparalleled levels of both. As well as years and years of practice.

Which explained why, perhaps, he was feeling its effects _now_ , instead of during the battle as intended. It had taken Sylaise three hundred years to master her art. The Venatori perfecting it with enough efficiency, blind as they were, could never hope to be a threat.

Though none of that would matter if they had killed Ilona… those were thoughts better left alone.

They had captured her because Varric and Blackwall were sleeping off the Felandaris, and he had been drained of power, therefore was just as exhausted. She, too, would have been weakened by the herb in her blood, and been less able to fight off any attackers. He forced the image of a limp, struggling Ilona out of his mind. What of the scouts? Surely they would have raised some kind of alarm.

Wandering to the edges of camp netted answers. Answers he knew would add more pain to Ilona's eyes. The four scouts sent to this camp were all dead, their bodies broken and tossed haphazardly amid the trees. Crystallized shards of red lyrium grew on the wounds that had claimed their lives, making it appear as though they bled rubies.

Solas closed his eyes. He had no prayers to offer them, nothing to send them to whatever benevolent entity they saw fit to offer their devotions to. Opening them again, he absorbed the carnage silently. It took longer than usual for him to accept the death as another fact of war.

Feeling almost obligated, he mumbled a soft " _Dareth shiral"_ before returning to camp. What an influence she was. But there was nothing to be done for them now. She, however, could still be alive. He would find her. He _needed_ to find her. The brief flash of fury returned before he flattened it. There was little he could do with his spellpower suppressed, regardless.

Once again, assistance was required. He reached Varric's tent and slid the flaps apart, knowing the dwarf may as well be a stone himself for how deeply he was likely sleeping. The problem now was returning him to consciousness. Shaking him or speaking to him would be inefficient, if past experiences were any indication. And resistant to magic as he was, Solas' little power would be as effective as trying to carve stone with a quill.

There was one thing… a technique he had used before on addled followers who returned exhausted from encountering "The Goddess of the Hearth." A despicable tactic, but it worked. And Solas had no time to delay. The longer he waited, the greater the likelihood became that she was dead.

And the notion that he could lose her, had already lost her, was the only thing in recent memory that genuinely terrified him.

So it was, with the barest hint of regret, that he pulled the pillow from beneath Varric's head and pressed it over his nose and mouth, canceling the access of air. And waited. And watched. The effect was almost immediate. Varric's eyes flew open, shock and terror and rage all prominent, and Solas had a crossbow bolt leveled at his chest in the time it took to blink.

Just as effective, even years later. He crushed the smirk before the dwarf saw. Varric knocked the pillow out of his hands, and it fell to the dirt. " _Shit,_ Chuckles! What are you doing?" He sat a little straighter on his bedroll, wariness adding to the other emotions, breathing heavily. Bianca did not move from threatening to end Solas' life.

"You had Felandaris in your system. Panic is the only emotion strong enough to awaken one that is afflicted." He forced his voice to remain calm, waving a hand generally. "Provided you lack the time to properly sleep it off. As we, currently, do." Their allotted time grew smaller by the second.

Bianca no longer remained pointed at him, dropping to Varric's side. "Felan… that weird bitter root one? Oh, damn it. Hawke's dog ate that once. Sodding slept for three days." He ran a hand over his face before seeming to register what exactly Solas had said. "Wait, why is our time short?"

At least the effects didn't need to be explained. "The Inquisitor is gone. The three of us slept through her abduction, and the scouts are dead." He restrained the urge to voice the fear that she, too, was dead. Varric, likely, already understood the implication, and it did not need to be put into words. "My magic is restricted by the Felandaris, still, but we must _find_ her."

If the Venatori had killed her, because he had been careless, because he had been distracted, Void help them all. Time continued wasting away as he regarded the words dawning on Varric. "Quizzy's gone? _Shit._ Shit, shit…" He was on his feet in an instant, beginning to pull on his armor. "Go get Hero. Don't get yourself killed with that wake-up technique, though."

Solas laughed softly and ducked out of the tent. "I shall try not to." Leave it to the dwarf to crack a joke in the middle of a crisis.

A tingling in his fingers indicated the return of a modicum of his power, so he woke Blackwall by pointing a finger at the Warden's exposed foot beneath the blanket and releasing Winter's Grasp. Even that small act was terribly draining, and he found himself dizzy as Blackwall roared in surprise and leapt to his feet. "Maker's balls, Solas! There must be a better way."

He received the same explanation, though it took longer as he had only a vague knowledge of the herb's effects. More wasted time. Time Ilona didn't have. Solas rose a hand to his forehead, feeling the lingering beginnings of a fatigued headache. "I recommend haste, Blackwall."

The bearded man complied, at least understanding the gravity of the situation. Solas left his tent, too, without so much as a farewell, and returned to the campfire where Varric was already waiting. Sunlight gleamed off the Drakestone bracers on his wrists, and he fiddled with the strap of one as he watched Solas approach, then kicked the offending section of the campsite with a booted foot.

"The footprints don't last. They're mainly here, where the dirt is deepest, and then they fade as the grass shows up." He looked exasperated. "This is going to be a hell of a manhunt, Chuckles."

Solas folded his hands behind his back, his wrists connecting with his staff. She could be anywhere. They didn't know when she had been taken, how long she had been gone, how wounded her struggle had left her… "We cannot leave her to die."

"I wasn't suggesting that, believe me. Not even slightly. The world… kind of needs her." He adjusted the crossbow across his back before shrugging. "We'll find her. We have to. Maker knows I'm not facing down the Seeker to tell her we lost the Inquisitor."

The mirth was so very forced. Solas could hear the apprehension behind the words, however. If they didn't find her, or if she was dead, what then? The world was doomed, was the simple answer. Horribly and irrevocably doomed. For all involved. He locked his jaw and denied to reply beyond nodding curtly, not trusting the steadiness of his own voice.

Blackwall emerged then in a clank of armor, his voice not bothering to hide the concern. "Why didn't any of us wake up? The idea that I slept through a fight is… not like me."

"It is unlike any of us, Warden. Felandaris makes any without magic sleep as though they will never awake." Solas found his patience growing thinner as he had to yet again explain to Blackwall why he had slept so soundly. "Regardless, this wastes time. How do we best begin our search?"

"We start by not splitting up. It would be faster, but if we're attacked it would all fall apart." Varric squinted over the edge of the hillside into the valley below.

Solas almost argued, stating they couldn't afford to waste any time, but kept his mouth shut. The logic was incredibly prevalent in the dwarf's words. Falling to Venatori hands on their search would not save anyone. He cast a swift glance to Blackwall, who huffed and nodded, dropping his griffon helmet onto his head.

"We require a plan of some kind. Wandering aimlessly is only another waste." This concern Solas voiced, desiring some semblance of structure to the slowly unfurling chaos. Silence reigned as the three of them appeared to collectively think. Varric snapped his fingers together after a moment.

"Camps. There were a few open clearings we passed on the way here. Nice places to set up a camp. Those Venatori bastards are powerful, but they can't see in the dark. Might be some evidence there." Without waiting for a reply to his revelation, Varric set off down the hill. Solas consented, again, the inherent logic of it. He had not even considered the possibility, himself.

The walk down the hill was largely silent. Solas appraised the trees for evidence of conflict or struggle, attempting to identify any possible trails left by the abductors. His rage had been crushed to a tiny flicker of its original wave, something he nestled deep. Anger had not been a friend of his for years. There was little need to welcome it again, regardless of the situation. He was more deadly without red clouding his vision.

He would not have need to be as concerned had Ilona not been exposed to Felandaris. Vulnerable as he was, she was likely worse as he had encountered it before. And weak was never a word he had associated with her. It did not settle well on his tongue.

They had not been walking long when Varric stopped. Solas dragged himself from his thoughts and turned his head to where the dwarf was staring. "Chuckles…" The word was every bit a warning.

Whatever had Varric so stunned took a moment to come into focus, given how well it was concealed in the trees. Solas saw the eyes first, like two hovering pieces of amber. Wolf.

Solas turned slowly to face their new arrival, all too aware of the fact that if there was one wolf, there were occasionally more. And they were in no state to combat an entire pack. To his left, Blackwall shifted, one of his hands dropping to the hilt of his sword. Slowly, Solas extended a hand and gave the tiniest shake of his head. It had not attacked them yet. Starting the fight would only end in the wolf's favor.

Blackwall looked momentarily surprised, but consented, moving his hand back to his side. Varric spoke, voice no louder than a murmur. "What does that brain of yours know about wolves?"

Too much. Far too much. Wolves were intelligent. Wolves were brave. Wolves were bold, and rebellious, and tricky. Wolves were underestimated.

Wolves were prideful.

He blinked, twice, clearing his head. "…Enough. I know enough. Don't move."

Both listened to him, becoming utterly still. Those two amber eyes did not move. They stared one another down until the silence became a weighted, heavy thing that pressed in from all directions. And it was only then that the wolf moved, dropping its head between its paws and collapsing on the forest floor. A whine, not a growl, slipped past its lips, and the sun danced between the leaves enough to see the shine of blood on its front left leg.

It began licking the paw slowly, carefully, exposing the wicked wound that ran the length of the limb up to the shoulder. Solas inhaled softly. The wolf closed its eyes and rested, clearly deciding they were not a threat. Varric's and Blackwall's shoulders sagged as though they'd been holding their breath.

Solas took a step closer to the animal, appraising the cut. It looked as though it had been made by a blade. Whatever, whoever had made it could still be alive, could have answers if they were who he suspected.

He began walking in the direction the wolf had arrived from. It offered no acknowledgment that he had passed it besides a flick of its ears in his direction. A few muffled curses preceded Varric's arrival at his side. "Are you insane? Where are you going?"

"Something attacked it. Or some _one._ And it is currently, I believe, a better lead than anything else we possess." He kept walking, forgoing any consequences, searching for what power he had in the event of a battle.

"…Fair. But we are not exactly in peak condition." Varric ducked under a low-hanging branch as he attempted to keep up. Solas tuned an ear and caught the sounds of Blackwall's muttering and clanging as he cleared a path some distance behind them.

She had been missing for too long already. He was taking whatever possible trails he could pick up. Whatever he found—

A growl, low and menacing and so deep it vibrated his ribcage silenced his thoughts. The last tree branch in his way was pushed aside to reveal a meager clearing, bearing evidence of destroyed tents and the remains of a campfire. The growling increased, and he counted a loose ring of six… no, seven… wolves surrounding a larger one in the center of the circle.

The wolf in the middle was the epitome of rage, hackles raised, head lowered, ivory teeth stained with blood that appeared to be fresh. Solas could do nothing for a moment beyond stare. Varric parted the branches, then, trailed by Blackwall. "Well. Shit."

An accurate statement, for once. Solas took the time allotted by the standoff to evaluate the clearing. The tents were in shreds, destroyed beyond possible repair. The campfire was covered in dirt darkened by what he could only assume was blood, and to the left and right of the pack were the bodies of eight Venatori, as well as three dead wolves.

What had prompted the attack? What had provoked these animals? Why?

"What do we do?" Blackwall's voice was grated, strained. Solas opened his mouth to reply, hand moving slowly to his staff, when delicate fingers appeared around the corner of the growling wolf's neck and sank into its fur. A weak voice murmured in Elven, barely audible over the sounds.

" _Evune, ma falon. Ren ma… halani._ _Ni… ren helar."_ Solas removed his hand from his staff, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing. And yet… he would know that voice anywhere. Her Elven accent was molded by the others that added music to her voice. He had not known she could speak it so well.

 _Moon, my friend. They will help me. Do not hurt them._

The wolf took a step to the side, his silver fur shifting above a powerful frame, and relaxed out of his protective stance. His eyes held an uncanny amount of wisdom as he met Solas' gaze, lacking any hostility.

And then she said his name. "Solas…"

He turned his attention from the wolf at the word, his heart threatening to explode. She was alive. By the Void… they had not killed her. Blood dripped from a shallow-looking cut on her forehead, as well as from several scratches on her arms and chest. The skin around her wrists was red, rubbed by the ropes she had managed to burn away, now laying in a charred pile at her knees. But she was _alive_.

Her eyes danced over his face as he walked to her, kneeling at her side and gathering her into his arms. She released a small gasp of surprise; he had never been fond of openly displaying their relationship. But he simply held her, breathing her in, the mountain air and lilacs muted by the blood and the Felandaris.

She said his name again, into his shoulder, trembling slightly. The wolf whined and took a step closer, his eyes now only inches from Solas'.

"Evune found me. He…saved me." Her words were not entirely steady, but she was clearly familiar with this wolf. He had a name, after all. Solas nodded into her hair.

 _"Ma serannas, Evune."_ Something sparked in that overly knowledgeable gaze. Evune huffed and shook himself.

There would be time to ask questions later. He lifted Ilona from the bloodied dirt and carried her back across the clearing. She twined her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his shoulder, saying nothing. Her faint trembling did not stop.

Varric and Blackwall, blissfully, declined to comment before spinning on a heel and leading them back through the trees. Evune walked to Solas' right, his ears pricked, stance alert. Solas held Ilona a bit closer, lips tugging into a bitter smile of their own accord.

She had not one Wolf, but two.


	12. Harmony

**A/N:** So, college started up again. This story's updates are going to become even more highly sporadic. I'm not abandoning it, no way, but school is demanding. Just a warning. Anyway, enjoy, and thanks for reading!

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Ilona was still a mystery. Few things seemed to crack her calm persona, the angles and lines of her face constantly arranged into an expression of serenity. Any and every form of news given to her was received with a single, calm nod and a few soft words.

Solas knew it was a mask—it had to be, given everything she'd endured—but she wore it constantly, with quiet dignity and even quieter resolve. Much like his own, he guessed. There was a wealth of secrets hidden beneath the gold in her eyes; flashes of her stories apparent in scattered moments.

A swift, shocked blink at the sight of death; split seconds of guilt and sorrow appearing before being controlled. A light added to the gold; fire that burned and spit with anger at the sight of injustice before being extinguished. A shadow passing over the sapphires; memories clogging the color and dulling it before being washed clean.

The rest of her features may have remained calm, but there were always two holes in every mask. And while it may have been an art he was accustomed to, she had not yet gained control over that flaw. She was a puzzle, a maze, accessible only through those two windows.

He had become fascinated with her eyes.

Though he was unsure why, and unsure when it had happened. When he had at last noticed how many little details he had retained, it had been too late. She was a constant presence, unsolvable and quiet. Not Tranquil, but… alive.

Smaller sparks crackled briefly now, flickering like coals in the corners of her eyes. Not anger, not really. Solas tilted his head slightly as he watched her exit the Chantry, pausing for a moment to compose herself. A few rapid blinks, and her mask was whole once again. She exhaled a long breath to the chill air, small wisps curling from her lips to be claimed by the breeze.

Her gaze fell to rest on him, clear and calm, and he inclined his head in her direction. The sheet of parchment he had balanced against his knee fluttered in a small gust of wind. The sound snapped in his ears, and Ilona's eyes darted down to it. Curiosity replaced the calm for a moment, and she began walking toward him. He finished the line he had been creating and angled his gaze to see her better as she wound her way around the trunk of the tree he reclined against.

With only the gentlest rustle of fabric, she pulled herself effortlessly onto the lowest branch, several feet above his head, and leaned her head against the trunk as well, able to see the beginnings of his sketches from over his shoulder. She folded her hands together against her stomach, running one of her thumbs the length of a scar on her wrist, created by the Anchor. The line of green reacted to her touch, glowing faintly. Solas was unsure if she was even aware of the action.

"What are you drawing?" Her voice was scarcely louder than the wind. He added another line to the already growing cascade, letting the ink seep across the page in an ebony swirl. Her eyes burned a hole into his back, but he did not swivel to look at her.

"I am not often in the habit of sharing before it is complete." True words, for in the past there had never been anyone to show it to. She made a noise that was trapped somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and mumbled something he couldn't quite catch.

It sounded akin to "Secretive…"

He blinked, twice, electing not to comment and returning to his work. The word hadn't sounded malicious or disdainful. Her whisper had sounded as though she understood. Like it was a topic she mused over on a daily basis. Solas almost smiled, but it was lost to his drawing, gone before it was real.

The ink continued its bleed over the paper, one more curl. And another line, a swirl, a curve. Solas let his mind's eye work over the details, lost to the memories. Another aspect of this world he despised—the senseless destruction the humans seemed to wreak over the land. Desolation where there once was life, and fissures where the world was once whole. So much that _he_ had destroyed… but they had only worsened it.

Locking up their mages like animals was the least of their problems. Any magic in the realm they should be grateful for, not fearful of. How little they knew and understood. How small their efforts to keep themselves safe from the "dangerous" mages would be in the end.

His hand stopped on the paper, ceased mid-thought as he controlled the sudden spike of anger. What did locking them away accomplish, save to make them struggle? What did it achieve save to fuel their anger? A sharp, swift ripping sound jolted his concentration from his thoughts. He had pierced the paper with the pen; a small hole appearing in the curl of the drawn flames. Another thing, once so majestic, ruined.

Relaxing his grip around the pen, he risked a glance above him, to Ilona. Her face was upturned, holding a staring contest with the sky. One of her fingers traced circles over the Anchor, causing a small flare of jade any time she touched it. And there was a tightness to her frame, as if she was containing something within. Another small detail, noticed and stored away. He shook his head, sending his thoughts knocking against the sides of his skull. Why, by the Void, was she so different?

She must have felt him watching her, for her form shifted, and the edge of a sapphire met his gaze. "Done?" It was such a simple question, but it struck him then that she had been waiting. Avoiding watching him draw as he had stated he did not wish her to. …Such honesty.

Wordlessly, he lifted the paper, declining to acknowledge the small tear. Having no goal when beginning the drawing, his thoughts on the mages had turned it into a blend of the different schools, Storm swirling into Inferno which burned through Winter that chilled Spirit. There was not much rhyme or reason, but it reflected a freedom—one that the mages now lacked. It needed color, but that he currently did not have.

Ilona's eyes danced over it slowly, like she was absorbing each little detail. Every swirl of ink was swallowed by the sapphires. "Beautiful." She said it simply, like a fact. A soft word, quiet, nearly claimed by the wind. "Does it represent anything?"

Solas turned his head to the paper again, mildly impressed she had considered it beyond its outward appearance. He curled the paper into a cylinder and folded it into his traveling bag before at last returning her questioning stare. "…What was lost."

Her eyes flashed with something, so fast he could not discern the emotion. Again, her windows were hinting at thoughts beneath the mask. He stood, dusting snow from his trousers, and regarded her more easily as the silence stretched. He could very nearly see her weighing the words in her head. She broke his gaze to stare out over Haven, the wind picking up slightly to send flakes whirling through the gap between her and the branches. He gave her as much time as she needed to consider, allowing the silence to linger and weigh until she eventually spoke.

"Much has been lost. Mages have not known harmony for Ages." Ilona's gaze snapped back to him, her voice still soft but certain. She ran one of her hands over her braid, curling the end of it around a finger.

If only she knew. He smiled, faintly, the action almost strange to him. "You are correct, indeed. Though with the present situation we could all make grand use of a little harmony."

The corner of her lip twitched in the beginnings of a smile, but it didn't last. "We won't make any progress at this rate without it. Not with us having to pick a side."

Curiosity crackled to life at her words. He had not meant to pry into the inner workings of the Inquisition, but something was clearly distressing her. She was still tight, coiled like a snake about to strike. "Discord among our advisors?"

Her fingers ceased twirling her hair, falling loosely onto her legs, folded together. She glared at the Anchor like it was to blame. Which it was. "Yes… they cannot come to an agreement about whose assistance to ask for. The Templars, the Mages…" She trailed off, breaking his gaze again to glance at the sky. "And they want my opinion."

"And that is?" He wanted to know, forgoing any reasons why. It mattered what she believed regarding mages, how she felt about the power that flowed through her veins. She wielded it with a confidence, but her mask hid much. And if it concealed a fear of herself, as he had seen in others before… she could never hope to understand.

For some reason, the notion saddened him. That she could, in all honesty, be exactly like every other he had encountered. Ilona lifted her palm, igniting a tiny flame in the center. It flickered and danced in the quickening breeze, weak but constant, casting the lines of her face in a faint orange glow and adding amber to her eyes.

"I believe we were born with power we don't understand, not fully. And that yes, we need training and instruction. But we're not… monsters." The word shook a little, some of the strength failing her. A story there, then. She continued, though, snuffing the flame and locking that sapphire gaze with his. "Some of us want to understand. Some of us want change. And some of us were dragged into a rebellion we can't hope to win without any desire for blood."

He shouldn't have doubted her. But he released the smallest sigh of relief, regardless. Without doubt, she was different. Even if it was a collection of small moments that formed the change. Like the way she was looking at him now, her face serene but her eyes flickering like coals, the gold burning to shadow the blue.

It faded as she wrestled the emotion under control; the fire disappearing as the gold receded to the center of her eyes. "The mages need help… and that's what we're here for. But it's… not a popular opinion." And just like that, the confidence was gone. The quiet, soft-spoken woman returned, gentle and peaceful. It fascinated him, how quickly she changed. As though her emotions were dangerous things.

"Know, then, that I agree with you." It was an honest opinion, one that truly reflected the thoughts of one who tried to understand the world. And though it was not entirely similar to his, she had clearly deeply considered this for some time.

So many stories buried beneath her quiet. Hints and pieces and fragments with each conversation, each journey into the lands outside Haven. The corner of her lip twitched again. "…Thank you."

He nodded, slowly, folding his hands behind his back and looking to the sealed doors of the Chantry. "It is… refreshing to find one of a similar mind." Perhaps that was it. She had a very similar view of the world. Yes… that had to be it.

She laughed, honestly, but the sound was so small and so faint he was almost positive he had imagined it. "It is, yes." Shifting slightly on her perch, she dropped her gaze to her hands. "I haven't had anyone to talk to in a long time."

The words struck home, cementing themselves behind millennia of Uthenera. Solas blinked slowly, understanding all too well, though her isolation had clearly been by choice. Perhaps. She was impossible to read at moments.

He chose silence, as it was safe, wary of the storm in his head. She seemed to understand, nodding and closing her eyes as she reclined back into the tree. Too perceptive, those two windows of hers. Entirely too aware of the world around her.

Entirely too aware of _him._

Her eyes still closed, she spoke again, the words clearly meant only for him, even empty as the area around the tree was. "I'm glad you're you, Solas." It was a murmur, laced with honesty and contentment. It struck a chord, but the sentence required a reply.

Laughter was not something he had known in recent memory. Honest laughter, not a forced chuckle or a quiet huff. Still soft, but real. "…That is not something I have ever heard. Thank you."

She opened her eyes again, her windows broken, revealing the gratitude evident there, as well. His mouth seemed to move separately from his mind, some buried feeling he thought dusty and abandoned.

"Though you… are equally fascinating."

Sparks danced in her gaze before it slammed closed again, stolen by the mask as she shoved it deep. The faintest hint of color dusted her cheeks, her sapphires darting to the leaves. The silence was layered with hints of _something._

Whatever door he had just opened, he knew the possibilities beyond were world-shattering.

And for a moment, he didn't care.


	13. Optimism

**A/N:** It's a new chapter! At long last! Thank you for reading; I hope you enjoy!

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"They were _desperate,_ they were _terrified_ , and they made _mistakes._ " Ilona's eyes were blazing, the gold burning to swallow the sapphire, and she leaned over the table between them, her nails leaving tiny little half-moons in the softened wood.

Solas had seen her this furious only once before. The fight between them charged the air to boiling; he could taste the edges of her fire on the end of his tongue. The candle on the table grew in intensity, throwing her face into a fragmented maze of shadows.

But her voice was still terribly calm.

And he, for his part, was not about to concede defeat. Not for this.

"That means little." He refrained from clicking his teeth together at the end of the sentence, so fragile was the remaining peace. "They did everything willingly. They subjected themselves to that insane ritual _willingly._ "

Ilona stopped meeting his gaze, but it wasn't a gesture of agreement. He knew her far better than to think that even for a moment. Her forehead wrinkled, as when she was thinking, and her grip on the table lessened just a little. All of these small gestures he noticed, because he understood, because he'd had far too long to observe each breath that passed her lips.

"Yes." The word was a tragic song that bled through her voice and landed between them. He waited. Whatever else she was going to say would not matter. He believed what he believed. And he believed the Wardens had been wrong. She should have exiled them immediately for committing unforgivable crimes.

"But they did not do any of it with bad intentions." Such a soft sentence, heavy with her inherent trust in people. In the good the world held. Solas repressed the urge to scoff. It was decisions like this… that made him wonder if she truly had the kind of understanding she claimed.

The thought that she was naïve made his reply colder than he intended. "Good intentions can lead to dark places." He almost spit the words at her. By the Void, he was angry. Fire crackled in the pit of his stomach, as he had tasted the hints of hers. No other made him flare like this. Only her. She dragged everything to the surface, both pleasant and distasteful, through the needle-thin cracks she had created.

How could she possibly hope to control the Wardens? They, clearly, worked toward their own ends, not considering the ramifications raising an army of demons would have on the rest of the world. They saw it solely as a tool. They were given the opportunity to "cleanse" the world of the Old Gods and they took it, forgoing any consequences and ignoring the very large possibility that it was too good to be true. He was entirely unsure how they had managed to logically accept that as sane.

Yes, they had been desperate, but desperation did not excuse their actions. Desperation was… familiar. Too familiar. It made him uncomfortable how easily he remembered feeling desperate, like a lingering itch in the far recesses of his mind.

Perhaps there were other reasons he hated the Wardens.

Sparks dancing in Ilona's eyes snapped his attention back to her. Her lips had flattened to a thin, ivory line. The candle to her left began to flicker, wildly waving in a nonexistent breeze. She ceased leaning on the table, folding her arms across her chest. The sigh that escaped her was old, too old for the youth still clinging to her features. "So they should be condemned for trying to save people."

When she worded it that way, it made him the villain. Ironic, yes. Correct, in this instance… no. He wished she wouldn't twist his words. Licking two of his fingers, he extinguished the candle, canceling the release of her magic. "That is not what I said." He could hear the darkness in his own voice. It was not a tone he had used in so long… it was a tone he had never wanted to use again. Especially not when talking to her. An old shadow deep in his bones stretched languidly and growled. He pushed it down.

Something flashed through her eyes as they skittered over his face. "It's what you mean. I can tell. They made _sacrifices_ , Solas. Because they saw no other way out. What about that is so hard to accept?"

Of course she could tell. Or so she thought. If she knew… she would likely no longer be standing carefully in front of him now. There would be lightning between her fingers and equal danger in her eyes. Not the hint of an ember. "They were ignorant. Desperate, scared, trapped, it all is insignificant. Many in the world have been all three. It does not give one the right to resort to blood magic and rituals, greater good or no."

Her eyes narrowed, just slightly. It was a dangerous gesture, he knew, having seen it used usually before a fireball whispered to life in her palm. But her hands stayed dark. Her voice had fallen to little more than a murmur, razor-sharp pain tied to each word, faint as a breath on the wind. "And what about redeeming them? Sparing them? Letting them… atone?"

Atone? How did what she had decided help them atone? Bringing them into Skyhold, endangering any and all around them, that was not the answer. That did little more than increase their chances of corruption, and gave that twisted magister a realm of access into their ranks. It was, in hindsight, like inviting a wolf into a herd of halla.

And there was already one of those.

Solas shuffled a pile of papers on his desk, desperate for something to do with his hands. His voice remained level, chilled by the hints of Winter. "They constructed an inane plan to preempt the _Blight._ I do not see the need to allow atonement for naivety and compulsiveness."

Ilona recoiled like he'd struck her. Pain, not anger, not hate, was blinding in her stare, and silence held court for far too many heartbeats. Solas waited. Ilona's normally calm features were pinched and strained, adding dark lines to the serene angles of her face. Her eyes were fixated on the sheets of paper on his desk, gold-ringed sapphires avoiding his. She blinked, twice, before speaking, and her voice plunged all the way through his chest.

"Were you never naïve, Solas? Were you never compulsive?" She still refused to look at him, all the fight draining from her words like a bleeding animal. She looked, very suddenly, as small as she had the first time he had laid eyes on her, those many months ago. The Inquisitor had long left the room.

He sighed, defeated. No was the answer to both of her questions; millennia of naivety and compulsiveness had led him here, now, to her and her Inquisition. "This… is not about me." He stood a little taller, a little looser, less tense, his hands folded behind his back. The immediate anger was, for the current moment, gone. He breathed.

She laughed, bitter as elfroot, a small breath that fell to the floor. "But it is… and I… I don't know why I'm trying to convince you so terribly." Her eyes turned to him, through him, and her lips curled faintly into something hurt. "What about me, hm? Did I not deserve second chances?"

This gave him pause. Those were not similar circumstances, not even remotely. She had not resorted to blood magic or summoned demons or killed—ah. There it was. He let his voice turn soft, no hints of Winter or sharp edges. "This is not about you, either, _vhenan._ "

"But I made the choice. I spared them; I had to. After everything, after Stroud…" Her breath stuttered before recovering, so small he almost did not hear it. "…I had to." She closed her eyes, clenching the hand with the Anchor into a fist. "And you're right; more people will probably die."

She blamed herself for far too much. Solas walked around his desk and tucked her against him, pressing his lips into her hair. "You cannot be blamed for their actions prior to joining. But now you are responsible for them; they serve the Inquisition and represent it, and they are dangerous."

Ilona's words were muffled by the fabric of his shirt; she freed her hands to snake them around his back. "I know. But they can still be redeemed."

Solas sighed again, into her hair. Such hope, such faith. "Your optimism will get you into trouble someday."

Her head turned so that her ear was against his chest, over his heart. A small laugh rippled her frame. "It already has."

"Mm? How so?"

One of her hands on his back patted him, twice. "The Anchor. I went to the Conclave with such confidence, with so much faith that the talks would work. I believed I would observe and go back to running, back to hiding." She laughed, again, a little breath. "And now, here we are."

The Anchor was certainly trouble, more than she could possible hope to know. Solas could feel it against his spine, humming with strong, rapid power. It didn't feel… right, though it never would on any hand other than his own. He wrinkled his forehead. With the Breach closed, should it be that unstable? Did it pain her? Asking might raise suspicion… she would tell him if it was.

"And was it trouble you overcame, or trouble you lost to?"

He nearly felt the smile fall from her face. She pulled away, meeting his stare with those eyes, and tucked a stray raven lock behind one of her ears. The nick in it let torchlight fill her skin. "I think I'll overcome it when it's gone, forever." The light from the Anchor highlighted her face as she lifted it closer to her. "When the Venatori are gone, and Corypheus is gone, and the war is just a memory. Then… then I'll have overcome it."

Solas' heart twisted into knots. It would never be over. The war would never be just a memory, because it would continue; he would force it to. He would force her father and farther down this path that she hadn't even chosen in the first place, because if he knew anything at all, he knew that she would not simply stand by and watch. Her soul burned too brightly for her to allow the world to burn.

"That will be a day to look forward to." He smiled faintly, though it felt tight. Ilona dropped her hand and returned it, a gesture full of honesty and trust. By the Void, he did not deserve her.

The door to the rotunda shuddered against the wall just then, breaking the moment. Ilona's mask leapt into place, her smile falling, replaced with one of cool serenity. Solas straightened, adjusting his own. Time to ponder these things later.

"Inquisitor! Our soldiers located Crestwood's mayor. He awaits trial." The scout saluted Ilona as he delivered the news; she returned it before nodding.

"Thank you, I'll be right there." She cast Solas an apologetic smile, he tipped his head and helplessly lifted his shoulders.

"I will remain here." Ilona in judgment brought back severe memories, ones he would rather not associate with her. News traveled fast; her decision would find him soon enough. The scout gone, she stepped close to him again and kissed him lightly.

"I am glad you understood my choice, at last." She smiled into his lips.

"I try, _vhenan._ " And then she was gone. Solas stood for a moment in the silence and closed his eyes. Another lie, one more to add to his ever-growing list.

He had long ago given up trying to understand her.


End file.
